


Parent Pick-Up Zone

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Spoils His Dog, Clueless Boys Who Kiss, Fluff, Het Sex, If you love Bucky you had better love dogs, Kid!Fic, M/M, No Prosthetics, Original Canine Character - Freeform, Pining, Single parenthood, Slow Burn, Tumblr otpprompts, clueless Steve, eventual slash, eventually, no powers, original child character - Freeform, stucky au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 92,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good fences make good neighbors. Good friends become great lovers when Steve's daughter plays Cupid. </p>
<p>Tumblr prompt: Person A is a single parent whose life is very busy with their full-time job and their child(ren). Person B is someone they've known for a long time and they are very close and Person B is good at helping out with Person A's child. One day, Person A's child announces to Person A that Person A is in love with Person B. (Bonus: Person B is currently in another relationship. Possibly with Person C.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over the Fence

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of Stucky as single dads. These Tumblr prompts have been great for my writer's block, and I feel like the folks submitting them have been reading my mind, lately. So, cue the fluff, angst, snacks, Nickelodeon cartoon references, and hopeless pining.

"OW!" Bucky cursed as his shaving lather seeped into a nasty cut, compliments of the sharp, sudden knock at his front door that startled the crap out of him. Bear, Bucky's pitbull/border collie mix, began barking his head off from the laundry room. "Hush, boy, hush! Quiet!" Bucky yelled. He heard the dog pacing and thumping his tail against everything where he had him shut in until he could let him out into the backyard. Bear always freaked out whenever the neighborhood kids began leaving for school, and Bucky had received more than one noise complaint. He scrambled to pull himself together to answer the door. "Geez..." He scrubbed his face with his damp towel that he'd just wadded up and tossed on the rack a moment ago. "Hold on!" he called out as he searched around the floor for his boxers. He hopped into them as he stumbled down the back hall. "Just a minute!" he insisted as his visitor knocked again. He recognized the knock, loud and brisk, just short of banging, as belonging to his left-side neighbor. Bucky darted into his bedroom to grab a tee shirt from the top of the hamper, deciding it didn't smell too bad, and that it would serve the purpose of making him decent enough to open the door.

That was Steve's knock, all right. Guy had to be having a rough morning, Bucky mused. Steve Rogers was the only guy with a day job that Bucky empathized with at all. _Him_ , he would cut some slack for daring to knock on Bucky's door before three PM. Five sharp knocks, followed by a ten-second pause, just as distinctive as shave-and-a-haircut, two bits. Bucky made it to the door before he could manage the fourth strike against the badly peeling wood; Bucky really needed to repaint it. He opened it to him and managed a tolerant smile.

"Hey, neighbor. What's goin' on?" Steve looked sheepish and frustrated, and he sighed raggedly, rubbing his nape.

"Hey, Bucky. I hate to come over here like this, first thing in the morning... I know you just got home-"

"No. No, it's okay. Things happen, Stevie." Steve sighed in relief and managed a vestige of a smile. He stumbled forward on autopilot.

"Well, I hate doing this to you, and feel free to say no, but I need a big, BIG favor. I'm running late getting out the door to an early meeting with a client. They're across town, over on Water Street, and traffic is nuts at this hour-"

"Libby needs a ride to school?" Bucky asked.

"I would owe you SO big. I will totally do you a solid, Buck. I promise, but right now," and Steve glanced dramatically at his watch, mouthing the words _oh, shit_ , "I have about ten minutes to get across town." Steve was already mostly dressed and impeccably shaved, Bucky noticed with a hint of envy. Bucky's five o'clock shadow showed itself by noon, courtesy of his good old-fashioned Italian dark hair - a claim his father made, even though his mother insisted they were only Russian and Jewish - while Steve Rogers was a fair-skinned blond who freckled slightly when he tanned.

"I just need thirty seconds to get halfway decent. Pants would be good."

"Fair enough." Steve nodded and grinned. "Nice Oscars, by the way."

"Got 'em from an ex." Bucky wouldn't admit to Steve that he'd actually _stolen_ the green Sesame Street cotton boxer shorts from Brock when they broke up. Brock really _was_ a grouch, and there was no love lost between them. Bucky didn't need the lies, co-dependency or drama, but the boxers were ridiculously comfortable, and Bucky refused to part with them just on principle. Bucky relinquished every single item he'd ever purchased jointly with him when they lived together, wanting a clean slate and no moving truck to pack. Bucky drove off in his Prius with three suitcases, a few framed prints and a box of kitchen gear and never looked back.

"They had good taste." Steve's eyes flicked back up to Bucky's face and he cleared his throat. "I gotta jet. I'll send her over in a minute."

"Just as long as she knocks first," Bucky reminded him. There had been "incidents" before of Libby scaring the crap out of him. Bucky didn't need a repeat performance of the first time she'd walked in on him in his kitchen, singing his heart out to Aerosmith's "Dream On," also while in his underwear, scrambling eggs for a late lunch, to ask him if she could get her Frisbee out of his back yard.

Bucky could blame himself for singing too loudly, hitting the screechy high notes for not hearing her timid knock on the door, if he had to pin down how she got the jump on him.

"'Scuse me. Mister? MISTER!" Her tiny sprite's voice jolted him out of his big finish, and he flung the spatula across the stove in surprise, dropping the skillet onto the stove with a clang.

"Shit... geez..." He spun on her and stared down at a petite, skinny blonde child who couldn't be a day over six years old, with scabby elbows and knees and wearing a pair of coke bottle glasses. She had a certain mugly-cute charm, just old enough to have lost her first few baby teeth and for the ones that replaced them to look way too big and jagged for her mouth.

"Mister, can I have my shield back?"

"What?" Bucky squeaked.

"My Captain America shield. It's in your yard. Me and Trinity were playing with it, and it flew over your fence. Is your dog mean?" She shifted gears quickly, pushing her glasses up on her nose with one grubby finger.

"What? My dog? You mean, Bear? No. He's not mean, but he's nervous about strangers. He's a good boy. C'mon. I'll get your... shield, or whatever it is, but next time, could you please knock, sweetheart?" Then he held up a finger, thinking better of it. "Go right out there to the hallway. Please. Just for a minute. Just... I need clothes."

"Why are you in your underwear?" she demanded. "It's daytime."

"It's almost bedtime for me. I work nights."

"Why?"

"Because my job asks me to." Bucky didn't want to have this conversation in his skivvies and wifebeater tank. "But I really need you to let me cover up, sweetie."

"It's Libby," she informed him archly.

"Okay. Libby. My name is Bucky."

"Mr. Bucky?" she asked, frowning.

"No. No, no. Mr. Barnes, I guess. Bucky is my first name." She wrinkled her button nose and giggled at him, and Bucky shooed her into the corridor while he went to find clothes, and sure enough, she'd left his front door hanging wide open. Bucky promptly kicked it shut and beat feet to his room to find clothes.

"I can get it myself," Libby told him.

"I don't want you to go out there without me introducing you to my dog first. I said he doesn't like strangers," Bucky reminded her impatiently. He rummaged in his drawer and hopped into his last clean pair of canvas sweats and crammed his feet into his beat-up Nikes, hating how they chafed without socks. Bucky rushed back to corridor and found her peeking her head around the corner into his living room.

"You have a nice house," Libby told him. "Does anyone live here with you?"

"Just Bear."

"Do you have any kids?"

"Not yet, no."

"Are you gonna have some?" Bucky's mind whirled as she hit him with Twenty Questions.

"Um... maybe. Not today or tomorrow, kiddo." He slid open his patio door and sure enough, Bear was waiting for him at the end of the fence, wagging his tail, and not surprisingly, chewing on the dark blue Frisbee painted with a white star in the center, with a plastic strap on the back. The dog snorted and huffed, starting to trot over, and he barked in warning until Bucky placed a protective hand on Libby's shoulder.

"Down, Bear! DOWN! Nice! Be good! She's just visiting."

"I just want my shield!" Libby called out to the dog, who growled briefly, then barked again. "You said he was a good dog," she accused.

"He is. Let him sniff you." Libby stood stock-still while Bucky held Bear firmly by the scruff of his neck, gripping his collar with one hand, patting him firmly with the other to settle him down and give him time to process the young girl's scent, her face a new element in his domain.

"I'm Libby, Bear," she told him frankly. "I'm not mean," she promised. Curiosity won out, and Bear began sniffing at her ankles and knees. She giggled. "That tickles!" She patted his head with the flat-palmed caress of a smaller child, and Bear submitted to it patiently, giving her goo-goo eyes once she passed muster. "You can get your Frisbee, now, kiddo."

"It's a shield," she corrected him as she darted over to get it. Bear whined and barked at having his new toy taken away.

"He loves those," Bucky told her by way of excuse.

"Maybe he and I can play with it sometime," she suggested winningly, adjusting her glasses again. She gave Bear one last pat. "Bye, Mr. Barnes." She darted off for the front gate, struggling with the latch until Bucky followed her and lifted it up to let her out.

"Libby? Which house do you live in, if you don't mind my asking?"

"My daddy said don't give our address to strangers." Bucky's face burned with aggravation, and he sighed.

"I won't argue with your daddy. But next time you lose one of your toys, please knock first, all right? And... and, don't walk into strangers' houses anymore!" he called after her as she ran across his lawn to her left. Okay. The sage green house with the yellowing lawn, number two-sixty-two.

"Darn kid," Bucky muttered under his breath.

Bucky never thought he would see Liberty Rogers again until she decided to lose another toy over his fence, but he was wrong. A half an hour before he was due to drive to work, he heard a sharp knock at his front door. “Shit, now what?” he muttered as he tucked in his EMT polo. Bucky glanced at himself briefly in the oval-shaped hall mirror, licked his fingers and smoothed down the tendrils of hair straggling loose from his ponytail. “I’m coming,” he said aloud, grabbing the knob just as those knuckles struck wood.

There was Libby, pouting and pretending her shoes – light-up My Little Pony sneakers – were very, very interesting, posture slumped. Standing protectively behind her was a huge blond man straight out of an Eddie Bauer catalog, with coat-hanger shoulders and huge hands. They were gently gripping his little girl’s shoulders, and his expression walked that fine line between embarrassed and pissed off.

“Are you Bucky? Is that really your name?”

“Sort of. It’s Jim Barnes, but Bucky’s what I answer to. Are you Libby’s dad?”

“Liberty,” he corrected him. “My daughter told me she came into your house today.”

“That, she did.”

“Did you invite her in?” Steve demanded, jaw tight. Bucky huffed, feeling indignant heat flood his cheeks.

“No. I really didn’t. She came in all by herself. My front door was unlocked. I had my music turned up in the kitchen, and I didn’t hear her knock.”

“Is that true?” He stared down at his daughter, who was still pouty and looking like she’d broken something she’d been forbidden to touch.

“Yes,” she said meekly, adjusting her glasses, something Bucky realized was a nervous habit.

“I don’t usually come barging over into my neighbor’s house,” he informed Bucky, “but my daughter told me that a) she petted your dog, who’s apparently ‘not mean after all, Daddy,’ b) she came into your house, c) that you were in your underwear, and that you invited her into your yard.”

“Not in so many words. A) I introduced her to Bear, my dog, who like she said _isn’t_ mean, just misunderstood since he’s a big breed, b) she wandered into my kitchen, because I had my Pandora station cranked up while I was making myself dinner, and c) I was in my skivvies because I was about to climb into bed. I work nights. I asked your daughter to step into the hall so I could put something on.”

“Think about how this looks,” Blondie snapped, and Bucky, despite himself, had a hard time ignoring how hot he was, even in the middle of reading him the riot act. “Guy in his underwear lets a little girl into his yard to pet his dog?”

Now Bucky was getting pissed. “I’m not some pedo,” he told him archly. “Feel free to look me up in the sex offender’s registry if you have your doubts. My name’s actually James Buchanan Barnes, too, by the way. Feel free to ask the neighbors about me if you want, too.” Libby’s dad’s sandy brows drew together. “I’ve got to go to work in a minute. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression. I almost never answer the door before four. Can’t always guarantee that I’ll be decent before that.”

“If you didn’t know before that there are kids in the neighborhood, you do now.” The big guy was almost mollified. “Libby, say you’re sorry for walking into Mr. Barnes’ house uninvited.”

“I’m sorry,” she grumbled, pout still in place and looking a little ashamed.

“And that you won’t ever do that again.”

“I promise I won’t,” she agreed. 

“Strangers are dangerous, kiddo,” Bucky added softly. “Your daddy was very worried.”

It dawned on Libby’s father that they were technically still strangers. “I’m Steve, by the way.” He offered one of those beefy hands to shake, and Bucky noticed his flesh was firm and hot, his grip strong but not crushing. “I guess we’ll get out of your way.”

“No worries,” Bucky assured him. “Have a good night, Steve. Bye, Liberty.”

“I like Libby,” she pronounced. “And, Dad, he likes Bucky. You have to remember that.” Bucky’s lips twitched. Steve sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Move it along, kiddo. Bye, Bucky.” His neighbors trooped off down Bucky’s front walk, and he huffed in annoyance as he saw Steve checking out his car’s license plate. Still not convinced, huh?

But of course, it wasn’t up to Bucky to win him over, was it?

 

Yet at some point, he had. It seemed like once Bucky actually met Steve, he couldn’t stop running into him. By the time Bucky emerged from his house for the night, showered and decked out in his EMT gear, Steve was just getting home from picking Libby up from day care. He cleaned up nice in his dress shirts and khakis, making Bucky wonder what he did for a living. They waved to each other from across the lawn. Bucky started to notice that Steve didn’t always have a lot of free time to mow his yard or trim his hedges, but it was no skin off his nose. The houses on their street were zoned appallingly tight; Bucky could smell Steve’s laundry detergent from outside, as well as his dinner when he was cooking it. Apparently they ate a lot of frozen pizza. Bucky also noticed that there didn’t seem to be a Mrs. Rogers.

The Captain America shield flew over his fence periodically, as did a tennis ball, badminton birdie, a basketball, a remote control helicopter that Bucky was _so_ tempted not to give back, and a kit shaped like a giant bat. Apparently Libby and her friends had lousy aim…

Bear often found the toys before Bucky did, and he’d had to rinse off the dog slobber more than once before returning them. Libby, chastened by their first meeting, made a point of waiting out on Bucky’s porch when she came over on retrieval missions.

“What do you do for work?” she asked him one day when he came yawning to the front door, rattled out of a dead sleep.

“I’m a paramedic. Have you ever seen an ambulance go down the street when someone gets hurt? I’m considered a first responder,” he told her solemnly. 

“Is it hard?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it scary sometimes?”

“Once in a while.” Bucky wasn’t sure how to explain that the job took someone unflappable in the face of a trauma, but yes, he did sometimes feel afraid of what he was riding into, and how much pressure he felt when someone’s life was in his hands. “But I get to help people. That’s what I like to do.”

“Daddy sells health plans,” Libby informed him, and she provided him with another piece of the puzzle. It sounded hellaciously boring to Bucky, but he smiled.

“Does he think it’s scary?”

“No!” she cried, giggling.

“Wait here. I’ll get your ball.”

“Can I see Bear?”

“He’s napping,” Bucky told her. She deflated.

“Awwwww!”

“Next time, kiddo.” He went to the yard for the ball, still yawning and wondering if it was too soon to fix his daily – nightly – pot of joe. He handed her back the basketball, painted in red, white and blue. Kid had a patriotic fixation. But with a name like Liberty, it just made sense.

Once in a while, Libby showed up to sell him things like Girl Scout cookies, school raffle tickets, pledges for the PTA Jog-a-Thon – even though Libby wasn’t running herself, due to her asthma – magazine subscriptions, car washes, and coupon booklets for businesses that Bucky never visited. Her sales pitch was so cute he couldn’t resist her, and he was a sucker for green Girl Scout sashes. So sue him. Bucky’s pockets were thinner and his freezer was full of Tagalongs.

The thing about Steve was, he got easily distracted. And he almost always forgot when Trash Day was. More than once, Bucky moved his can out to the curb from the side of Steve’s house when he pulled out his own. Steve just gave him a grateful look as he rolled his can back, still in his dress clothes. “You’re awesome. Thanks for doing that.”

“Any time.” Bucky hated piled-up garbage more than anything.

As the months went by, Bucky got used to showing up on Steve’s doorstep, too. He overheard the commotion one Saturday, the Fourth of July to be specific, noticing the top of an inflatable bounce house from over Steve’s side of the fence. Thankfully, Bucky had the night off, and he decided he could put off hibernating an hour longer. He knocked on the front door, and he grinned down at Libby, who practically ripped the door off the hinges. She was dressed in a pretty blue sundress and red jelly sandals, with a garish party hat atop her towhead locks.

“Hi, Mr. Barnes!” she chirped.

“Is someone having a birthday?” he asked, seemingly mystified. “Sure sounds like a party?”

“It’s _my_ birthday!” she crowed. He gave a theatrical gasp.

“It is? I had no idea!” She grinned up at him, fidgety and hopped up on sweets. “I thought that bounce house was for your dad.”

“It’s his birthday, too,” she told him smugly. That took Bucky aback.

“Oh. Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Libby informed me very sternly that I’m too big for the bounce house,” Steve called out from the corridor, where he was balancing a huge white sheet cake.

“What? But… but… it’s your daddy’s BIRTHDAY!?!?!?” Libby giggled.

“He’s still too big!”

“Am I too big?”

“Maybe.”

“Hey!” Steve cried in mock indignance. “No fair!”

“Well, happy birthday, young lady.” Bucky excused himself, then grabbed his car keys. Twenty minutes later, he came back with a package wrapped in rainbow polka dotted paper and a card in a big pink envelope. Libby shrieked in delight when she saw the boxed set of The Last Airbender discs and the twenty dollar bill tucked into the card. She ran up and hugged Bucky around the waist and called out a thank-you as she ran back out into the yard, once Steve reminded her to. Steve nodded at the gift, eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“That was nice, Buck.”

*

 

As Steve promised, Libby was ready for school, waiting dutifully on his Bucky’s porch, backpack on and munching on the remains of a strawberry Pop Tart. Bucky was wearing a hoodie, his work cap, the canvas sweats and his sneakers, figuring that wouldn’t scare off the soccer moms. “Ready, kiddo?”

“Uh-huh.” She skipped after him to his car, and Bucky opened up the rear door of his Camry.

“Buckle up,” he ordered. “I want to hear that belt click.”

“I know.”

“Oh, you know, huh?” She made faces at him in the rearview mirror. Bucky made faces back as he keyed the ignition. Bucky tuned his radio to his sports station until Libby asked for her favorite top forty station. Bucky gritted his teeth as Iggy Azalea pumped out of the speakers. Steve made a sensible move asking Bucky to drive; the commuter traffic was a hot mess already, and a large pickup truck with three high schoolers crammed into the cab nearly cut him off. Bucky bit back his curse and the urge to flip them off, not wanting to abuse Libby’s sensibilities. Steve was a swear Nazi, letting Bucky know that little rabbits had big ears, too. Bucky’s favorite story was Steve’s account of Libby, who, at three, had fallen off a tricycle at preschool one day when she was climbing off of it, was laughed at by a group of her peers, and who then told all of them very frankly to fuck off. His parent/teacher conference had been enlightening to say the least.

There was something kinda funny about listening to a seven-year-old trying to rap.

Bucky made it to the parent drop-off zone of the school parking lot, craning his neck around the seat to make sure Libby wasn’t forgetting anything. “Got all your stuff?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Got your lunch?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Milk money?”

“Um…” Libby searched in her backpack’s outer pocket, rummaging through it. “Uh-uh. Daddy forgot.” Bucky reached into his wallet and fished out a crumpled one.

“Here you go. Do you have Girl Scouts today?”

“Uh-uh. I’m going to Trinity’s.” Bucky made a mental note to text Steve to make sure that was the plan, just in case something fell through, if Libby needed to be picked up after school instead. Bucky watched her hop out and she half-slammed his back passenger door. Bucky winced.

“Bye, kiddo!” he yelled out the window.

“Bye, Mr. Barnes!” She joined the little enclave of first graders in their almost matching pink and purple backpacks and Hello Kitty shirts. Bucky waited for the first bell to ring before he turned out of the lot to head home.


	2. Bent Out of Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky helps Libby out of a few scrapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No clue what I’m doing. The sophomore chapter of any fic that I write always kinda goes awry. Just going to try to stick to the prompt. Thank you SO MUCH for the kudos and comments you’ve given me so far, it’s been a lot of fun to hear from you.
> 
> The prompt kinda said that Person B helps Person A “over the years” with their kid, so expect Libby to age slightly as this moves along, in case you wonder about jumps in how old she is from chapter to chapter. I’m not planning for this story to be _too_ long.

Bucky yawned heavily as he padded barefoot down his front walk to retrieve his newspaper. He was thankful that the neighbors hadn’t stolen his _Daily Bugle_ this time, but the delivery man kept throwing it onto his grass instead of his driveway so it could get wet when his sprinklers turned themselves on. He waved to elderly May Parker across the street as she buckled the leach onto her small Pekingese’s collar.

“Hello, Jimmy!” she called out. “Lovely weather we’re having!” She was wearing a quaint, white sun hat with a navy blue ribbon around the brim to protect her milky fair, withered skin, matching her cruise-appropriate attire of a navy-and-white striped jersey, white capris, espadrilles, and a thick white cardigan even though the thermometer already read eighty degrees.

“It’s gonna be a scorcher, Mrs. P,” he acknowledged as he waved. 

“It such a shame you hardly get the chance to see the light of day,” she told him. Her dog, Ms. Lion, paused in sniffing the bushes to scratch behind her ear vigorously, and Bucky shuddered. If it was flea season already, Bucky needed to make a trip to the pet store.

“It’s not so bad, Mrs. P. I get to sleep through bad daytime TV and all those pesky vacuum cleaner salesmen.” Of course, they still came to his door, anyway, pestering him to offer him a free carpet shampoo and an hour-long sales pitch. 

“Oh, Jimmy! I just remembered… hold on a minute. I have something for you.” She shuffled back into her house, and Bucky sighed, feeling the fatigue set in now that he had a chance to stand still. His shift had been brutal, having worked three twelves already, but last night, every one decided to get behind the wheel after having a few. His eyes were so tired that it hurt to blink, but Bucky dutifully crossed the street, newspaper tucked under his arm as he waited at the edge of May’s yard for her to come back out. Ms. Lion checked him out, wagging her fluffy tail and sniffing his feet. 

“What is it with you and your foot fetish, girl? Huh?” he murmured as he bent to scratch her blonde ears. She flopped onto her back for a belly rub, shameless thing that she was. “Such a flirt…”

“She certainly is,” May tsked as she shuffled back out with a small, cream-colored envelope in her hand. “I would have put this in the mail with the rest, but you live right across the way, Jimmy. It’s an invitation to our engagement party for Peter.”

“Engagement? Petey popped the question?”

“He certainly did,” May boasted, her rheumy blue eyes shining with pride. “He’s finally getting his act together. Gwen wasn’t going to wait forever.”

“I’ll add this to my calendar,” Bucky promised, making a mental note to give Peter a good ribbing the next time he saw him. On days where Peter didn’t have classes, he lingered in the house looking just as bedraggled as Bucky, just as much as a night owl with his evening shift at the newspaper. They usually exchanged bleary, yawning greetings from over the lawn before turning in. “Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself, dear.” Bucky ticked off “beer” with a mental check mark and gave May’s shoulder a gentle pat.

“Thanks, Mrs. P. You and Ms. Lion have a nice stroll.”

“We old things need our fresh air. Poor dear. She has a bit of dysplasia in her hip. She’s going to be ten in a week.”

“Wow.” Time flew. Bucky could remember when he moved back into his parents’ home, and Ms. Lion had been a tiny, yappy pup that May carried around in her purse when she went out to the farmer’s market. Ms. Lion wagged her tail, knowing when her grown-ups were talking about her, and Bucky gave her one last scratch, making cooing noises at her. 

“Such a diva,” May chuckled. “All right. We’ll get going, Jimmy. Get some nice rest.”

“I will.”

“Ta-ta.” And they were off, neither lady moving that quickly. Bucky retreated to his house, fastening all of the locks and setting his paper and invitation on the kitchen table. Plenty of time to read them both when he wasn’t about to collapse…

He went through his usual routine, turning off his cell phone, landline phone’s ringer and the volume on the voice mail machine, setting his Sports Center programs to record, making sure the stove was turned off, setting a load of laundry to wash that included his work togs and at least one bath towel, emptying his pockets of his keys, work badge and wallet and setting them on the vanity, and setting his clock to wake him up at three-thirty so he could go to the gym before dinner. Then he closed all the blinds and turned on his small room fan for the sake of “white noise,” returned his work shoes to the closet, and stripped down to his boxers and tank before peeling back the covers. One whiff of his pillow told him he needed to wash his bed linens next, but it would keep for at least six hours.

Bucky groaned in pleasure at the feel of the mattress yielding to his weight and the cool ripple of sheets brushing against his skin. His muscles practically sighed as they slowly unknitted themselves, still not convinced that he wasn’t going to prod them into back into action. It was always hard when Bucky worked three-twelves and then picked up an eight every other week. His body never truly had the chance to recover on his first day off of the week, and it took two more days to catch up and finally feel rested. Every time, he had to cram all of his housework and errands into the fourth day, only to have to begin the ugly cycle all over again, mainlining coffee and energy supplements. 

Still, he loved his work, and the hospital’s administration encouraged twelve-hour shifts from its staff to ensure adequate coverage, especially at night in the ER. If it left him a zombie during the day, so be it. Bucky was grateful that he lived in a quiet neighborhood in the burbs, glad to be away from the noisy tenants in his last apartment. His parents decided the house was too large for them at that point in their lives, and they retired together to Florida, signing the title over to Bucky. He inherited all of the quirks of an older house, like a roof that needed to be replaced, the random leaking pipe and two bathrooms that wouldn’t mind a remodel when he had (more than) a few pennies saved. The mortgage payment was just barely within his means, but it was worth the hustle.

Living next door to the Rogers family was worth the hustle. As he drifted between that state between wakefulness and delirium, he thought of how different his life was since the day they met. Bucky wasn’t a let’s-welcome-the-new-neighbors-with-a-jello-mold kind of guy, for the most part. His social life was pretty straight forward, mainly involving hanging out with friends from work, grabbing a beer at the sports bar when their weekends coincided, and once in a while, a discreet hookup with friends he _didn’t_ work with. Bucky didn’t attach easily, and he couldn’t even blame it on past hurts. It was just the way he was made.

Steve and Libby barged their way into his life as easily as chucking toys over his fence. They were open, friendly, nosy, chatty and funny, and of course, how could Bucky deny them when they kept disarming him with their awkward charm? Bucky never met “Mrs. Rogers,” and he didn’t want to pry for the sake of sussing out where she was. Not yet, at any rate. One day when Libby went out the door in a cute denim skirt recycled from a pair of old jeans and trimmed in calico ruffles, Bucky had remarked “Lookin’ sharp, kiddo.” He nodded at Steve. “Very stylish.”

“This is Pick Your Own Outfit Day,” Steve informed him with an arch of one brow. That, in Bucky’s mind, easily explained the white tennis sneakers with childish pictures scribbled on them in colored Sharpies, the bright purple leggings printed with lightning bolts, and a tee shirt that looked like a summer day camp project, so decorated with cotton pompoms and glittery paint that it made Bucky’s eyes swim.

“My mom made this skirt,” Libby told him, thoughtfully fingering the ruffles. Bucky saw Steve blanch for a moment, pain briefly twisting his features. Bucky maintained his own smile.

“That’s nice that she would make that for you. You look like a million bucks.” That made Libby beam.

“Do you know how to make clothes, Mr. Barnes?”

“Nope. Sure don’t. I can barely even sew a button on.” Libby was lingering and trying to make small talk while her father juggled his commuter cup of coffee, keys and briefcase, finally setting the cup on the roof of his car while he unlocked the door.

“Hop in, Lib,” Steve urged impatiently. “Gotta hustle. Take it easy, Bucky.”

“Can I play with Bear today?” Libby asked from the back seat just as Steve was keying the ignition.

“Only if it’s okay with your pop and Kitty.” Kitty was the young, snarky college girl who watched Libby after school once Steve found out how few activities the day care gave the kids to do for the exorbitant amount of money they charged.

“We’ll see, kiddo.” Bucky was whipped, and he wasn’t sure he’d even wake up before his shift was ready to start, let alone have enough energy to let a rambunctious seven-year-old come over to throw his dog a Frisbee. Steve, Bucky noticed, looked just as drawn, like he’d hit the snooze alarm a few times before rolling out of bed.

“Good night, Bucky,” Steve told him, earning himself Bucky’s little smug smile. “Sleep tight.”

“In about ten minutes, with my luck, it’ll be Dawn of a Thousand Lawnmowers.” That made Steve chuckle.

“Sucks.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“Bye, Mr. Barnes!” Libby waved wildly from the backseat. Bucky waved back and watched them drive away until they disappeared after turning out of the cul-de-sac.

Bucky drifted off, still wondering why Steve looked so tired. He wished he could tell him a bedtime story.

*

And yeah, he had a thing for Steve.

*

Bucky stared across his yard a few days later and wondered to himself if it would be perceived as weird –borderline stalkerish – if he mowed Steve’s lawn for him while he was at work. It wasn’t that Steve wasn’t capable, and the man had a perfectly good Craftsman mulching gas mower parked in his garage, but Bucky saw his untrimmed hedges beginning to look furry and sticking out in tufts, patches of dandelions mingling with his flower beds, and Bucky realized that he just couldn’t stand it, and he was gonna mow Steve’s lawn, so help him, God.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Bucky muttered as he put on his yard shoes and baseball cap and headed into his own garage. He pressed the button to automatically open it, checked the mulch bag to make sure it was empty, primed the gas, and let ‘er rip, starting on his own lawn first. In the back of his mind, it just didn’t seem right for Steve to come home to a raggedy lawn. What if he wanted to bring home company? What would they think? Bucky also considered that Libby and her little friend Trinity from down the street spent a lot of time playing in the front yard, too, drawing on the pavement with sidewalk chalk, running a lemonade stand, or just practicing cartwheels or running in the sprinklers. Kids deserved nice yards. Otherwise, what was the point of owning a house?

Of course, the hedges were a mess, and Bucky was waiting to try out his new Black and Decker loppers, anyway. He was flattening the tops of the shrubs and neatening the sides when May Parker startled him.

“Oh, good. That yard of his was driving me crazy to look at it, too, Jimmy!”

“It wasn’t just me,” Bucky agreed as he hacked and lopped. He swept up the clippings quickly and hosed down his driveway and front walk, pronouncing his work decent. Bucky dumped out the mulch bag and put away his mower. As Bucky headed to bed, he laid there wondering in hindsight if he’d gone overboard. 

“He’s gonna think I’m a friggin’ nutball,” Bucky murmured as he closed his eyes. 

*

Bucky was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he answered the low, uneven knocks, brow furrowing as he heard two female voices from the other side of the door. He recognized Libby’s giggle and suppressed a sigh. They’d woke him _twenty damn minutes_ before his alarm went off. Bucky opened the door to Libby’s expectant smile and a sheepish look from Kitty.

“Hi. Yeah, so, I know we woke you up. Bad form on our part,” Kitty told him, but she and Libby were both each holding cookie sheets covered in tin foil. “But we were wondering if we could use your oven?”

“For…?” Libby grinned up at Bucky.

“For COOKIES!”

“Cookies, huh?” Bucky’s lips twisted. “I supposed I could sacrifice my oven for cookies, on the condition that I get to have one?”

“Sure!” Libby cheered, bouncing up and down. 

“Yup. The guy who loans us his oven get a cookie, that’s the rule,” Kitty agreed. Bucky backed up before Libby could bowl him over as she raced into his house toward the kitchen. “Careful, kiddo, don’t drop that!”

“I won’t!” Libby called back. “Hurry, let’s bake the cookies!”

“Wash your hands first, kiddo,” Bucky interjected. 

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Kitty agreed. They entered the kitchen and Libby’s tray was already on the stovetop, and she was up to Bucky’s sink, leaning over to get his dish soap. “She already knows where everything is?”

“She’s not a stranger,” he told her. 

“Do you have milk?” Libby prodded him. 

“Not at the moment… I can go get some?” he suggested.

“You don’t have to go to the trouble.” Kitty looked guilty. “We came over and woke you up from a sound sleep…?”

“The sleep I get during the day can’t really be classified as ‘sound,’ punkin’,” he told her easily. “And I never turn away surprise cookie bakers.” Bucky lumbered back to his bedroom, hearing Libby’s tinkling giggles while Kitty was inspecting her hands, making sure they were clean enough before they turned on the oven. Bucky made quick work of pulling on some jeans and yanking a comb through his hair. It was growing past his shoulders, and he probably needed it cut, but pulling it back in a ponytail saved him the trouble of styling it with product every day. In the back of his mind, too, Bucky thought the ponytail made him look more “rakish” than merely “haggard” from the ongoing lack of sleep. He tugged on a pair of Chuck Taylors and shoved his keys into his pocket along with his wallet.

“I’ll get that milk. You girls need anything else?”

“Can I pet Bear?”

“Not til you’re done baking,” Kitty told her. She looked to Bucky for confirmation. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

“That’s fine. He’d love a visit from his favorite princess.” Libby beamed and bounced in her chair while Kitty set the timer, and Bucky was off.

By the time he got back with the milk, his kitchen smelled heavenly. Kitty had found his paper napkins and had lifted off a couple of cookies for Libby with the spatula.

“You can use plates,” Bucky argued.

“No sense in dirtying anything else,” Kitty shrugged.

“Have a cookie, Mr. Barnes! They’re yummy!” Libby told him with crumbs around her mouth already and telltale chocolate streaks on her fingers.

“We can dirty a few glasses,” he said. Libby was a growing girl, and she could use some milk, he reasoned, even though she was slightly small for her age. Bucky wondered if her mother was petite?

Bucky started with milk for himself after purloining a couple of cookies, but he moved on to coffee, starting his evening wake-up regimen early. Libby showed off her milk mustache to him, making him chuckle. They heard Steve’s car pull up in the driveway next door, and Bucky steeled himself. “Might want to go tell Daddy hello, Libs,” Bucky admonished. “You can borrow that plate if you want. Steve will eventually bring it back.”

“I can just put them back on the tray,” Kitty told him. She used the same tinfoil she brought the dough over in to cover them after leaving Bucky a couple more. “Thank you so much. Libby was so excited for our cookie day.”

“You can come over and bake cookies next time, Mr. Barnes,” Libby informed him. 

“Let’s let Mr. Barnes get ready for work now,” Kitty pointed out. “You work late shift, right?”

“Yup.”

“I recognized those dark circles. My boyfriend Piotr is an EEG/sleep study somnographer. He works nights, too. Not his favorite thing, but he’s going to nursing school.”

“Nice. He’ll be glad he did it.”

“He’ll just sleep for a _year_ after he passes his exams and gets his pin,” Kitty joked. She herded Liberty out the front door. “Bye, Bucky.”

“Take care, Kit-Kat!” Kitty wrinkled her nose at the nickname, but Libby grinned.

“Bye!” she waved as she skipped down his front steps. He closed his front door before he could catch Steve’s reaction to his front yard. His stomach tensed into a hard little knot of worry. What if he thought Bucky was psycho?

Still, it _needed_ cutting.

“I’ll just be minding my own business, now,” Bucky muttered to himself as he locked his door and headed for the shower.

Bucky was just preparing his dinner and packing it into Tupperware when he heard another tentative knock on his door. Five distinct raps. Bucky hesitated on his side, hand pausing on the knob. Here went nothing…

Steve was staring at something across the street as he waited for him, rubbing his nape awkwardly. He turned to Bucky at the sound of the door hinge squealing, and a nervous smile crept across his lips. Bucky bit his.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Um. So. Was my yard… you?” He pointed in its general direction. 

“Yeah. Um. I… kinda might’ve cut it a little. Sorry.”

“No! No, no… don’t be. It looks… _great._ I don’t think I’ve done that much yard work on it myself since we moved in. I just get so darned busy… and Libby told me you let her make cookies in your kitchen?”

“Kitty said your oven was busted.” The tension in Bucky’s gut was beginning to unknot itself, and he was beaming. “Libby behaved herself very well. We had fun.” Some, anyway, even if Bucky was exhausted and nodding off over his coffee. 

“The bottom heating element broke last week. I’ve been managing okay with the stove top. And we’ve been getting a lot of takeout.” Steve grimaced. “A _lot._ ”

“Scribble down the model number. Should be right inside the edge of the oven door. What’s the make of your oven?”

“Crown Frigidaire.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Hit highway thirty-two and go to the appliance store there. They sell those parts. They sell that brand of oven.”

“That’s… okay. That’s helpful. Thanks for the tip. And the yard. And the cookies.” Steve was shaking his head, grinning, and Bucky felt his pulse pick up at that smile, feeling warmth creep over his own cheeks.

“Um… sure.” They both chuckled. “I’ve got milk?” Steve’s eyes lit up.

“Ooh. You do?”

And that was how Steve ended up getting a tutorial on how to replace a heating element in Bucky’s kitchen, enjoying milk and cookies and his last bit of adult conversation for the day before he had to pay the babysitter and start dinner.

*

On Bucky’s Saturdays, i.e., any weekday where he didn’t have Dispatch barking addresses into his work cell, he slept like the dead, around the clock, until he was groggy and sated, having no clue what time it was. On those days, he let Bear inside, too, not wanting to worry about him barking his head off through the fence, especially with summer arriving. More kids were in their back yards in blow-up pools or running through the sprinklers, and that also meant more toys sailing over into Bucky’s back yard. If Bucky wanted a peaceful afternoon’s rest, he needed to bring his dog in, even at the risk of him chewing up his shoes or getting into the kitchen cabinets while he slept. Bucky had to baby gate the kitchen to keep the Potato Chip Incident from repeating itself.

Bucky was drooling into the pillow when he got the fast, low knock, and he groaned loudly. “Nooooo, nononoooooo!” he whined. “No fair…” Bear’s head flew up, and he barked at full volume. “No, boy. Quit it. Not helping.” Bucky stumbled out of bed, checking himself over, and he decided on his Under Armour tee and a pair of basketball shorts laying on the floor. He scuttled down the hall, Bear hot on his heels. Bucky jerked open the door and stared down at Libby, who grinned up at him smugly.

“Libs… hey, kiddo.”

“Uh-oh.” Her smile faltered. “Sorry, Mr. Barnes.”

“It’s okay. What’s up?”

“I wanted to show you my new skates! Mommy sent them to me for my birthday!”

Of course she did. Bucky thought it made perfect sense, since he had the Fourth circled in red on his calendar and had already furtively shopped for gifts to surprise Libby and Steve with when that day arrived. Libby was decked out in more of her usual rainbow gear, looking like Lisa Frank sneezed all over her, and she wore a pair of rollerskates with white figure skating boots, large purple toe stoppers and wheels, and glittery silver laces. Libby also had on knee guards and a white safety helmet with pink stripes.

“How did you walk up my front porch in those?”

“It was easy!”

“Okay. PLEASE let’s not do that again, kiddo. I don’t want you getting hurt.” The unspoken words _on my porch_ lingered on his tongue, because hello? Not to mention _and I don’t want your father wigging out._

“I’m okay!” she protested.

“Just be careful for me, please?” She nodded solemnly.

“Uh-huh.”

“Who’s watching you today?”

“Kitty. She’s inside. She said I could skate for a while as long as I stay on the cul-de-sac.”

“Okay.” Bucky felt wary. He hoped that Kitty wasn’t just inside on her cell or tablet futzing around while Libby was outside acting like hell on purple wheels. “Just check in with her in a few minutes, okay? Make sure you stay in the cul-de-sac.”

“Okay.” Libby pushed her glasses up on her nose.

“Promise?”

“Promise!”

“Don’t talk to any strangers. Remember ‘stranger danger.’ Don’t take any wooden nickles. Look both ways before crossing the street,” he continued, wanting to throw all of his sister Becca’s warnings that she’d given him when they were kids on the table. Becca’s method of babysitting Bucky involved giving him the bum’s rush out the door while she watched American Bandstand with Dick Clark or listened to her old Bon Jovi records.

“They don’t make wooden nickels,” Libby argued.

“Well, don’t take any,” he told her firmly. She shook her head.

“I won’t.” She turned away and started stomping down his steps in her skates at a weird angle, and Bucky felt a frisson of panic, but she made it down to his walkway just fine and glided down to the sidewalk.

“Bye, Mr. Barnes!”

“Have… fun,” he called out weakly. “Please don’t break anything,” he muttered under his breath.

His words proved prophetic, and he regretted them bitterly before the day was done.

*

Bucky decided that trying to sleep in was futile after all once his neighbors on the other side, the Pyms, let their landscapers come over to do their mowing. Front yard _and_ back. Bucky groaned and beat the pillow while Bear just nosed him in sympathy. He staggered into the shower to wash his hair and decided a trip to the gym was a good idea. Bucky decided to shave while he was under the spray, whisking off his stubble with the blue plastic Bic. When he was out of the house during daylight hours, it was nice to look reputable. 

Bucky doused himself in deodorant and Old Spice aftershave, yanked his hair back into a slick ponytail, and put on shorts and tank that actually matched for a change; most days he just threw on any old thing, looking like he changed in the dark. He put Bear out in back and headed for his car, sipping water from his Kleen Kanteen thermos. Bucky pulled out of his driveway and paused before he made it down the block to let May Parker pull out of hers. She waved and smiled to him before heading down the street at a sedate roll. Bucky wondered how much longer she would be driving herself around, but she seemed relatively careful. 

He followed her past the stop sign, then made it another few blocks before he noticed a small clutch of school-aged kids in helmets, holding razor scooters or leaning on bikes where they stood, all staring down at the ground between them. Bucky recognized an accident when he saw one.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath as he pulled over and parked. He got out and trotted over. “Kids, what’s going on?” A tall blond boy moved aside, looking sheepish.

“She was tagging along on my brother’s bike and fell,” he confessed, and Bucky looked down in horror at Libby, lying on the ground with her leg folded up under her gruesomely, looking dazed and weepy.

“It was an accident!” cried the boy about Libby’s age with short brown hair and a gap where his baby teeth were missing. Bucky was quickly kneeling by her side, taking her tiny hand in his, his blood running cold.

“I know that, Jack!” his older brother railed back. “I’m not saying it was your fault!”

“We were just playing,” piped up the tiny strawberry blonde girl in pigtails, who couldn’t have been older than four. “Libby got an owie.” 

“Libby? Sweetie? Can you tell me what happened?”

“Ow…” she moaned, grimacing. “I hurt my leg.”

“I know, baby. Did you hit your head on the way down?” His voice was gentle as he checked her over for scrapes. She hissed in pain as he probed a large one on her elbow.

“I don’t think so.”

“Does Kitty know where you are?”

“Uh-huh. I told her I was gonna skate some more. She gave me lunch,” Libby explained, then wincing and crying out when she tried to move. “Ow… _ow, ow, OW, owie…_ ” Her voice shuddered out in little hitching sobs. Bucky cringed, know it had to hurt like hell. He’d broken his arm once as a kid falling off the jungle gym, and he’d been miserable.

“Right…” Bucky grabbed his cell from his pocket and dialed Steve’s home number, hoping Kitty would pick it up in the kitchen.” She managed to answer him on the fourth, sounding out of breath.

“Hello?”

“It’s Bucky from next door. I’m down the street with Libby. She just fell on her skates.”

“Shit! Oh, my God, is she not in the cul-de-sac?”

“Nope. Just past the stop sign,” Bucky told her stiffly. 

“I’m sorry!” Liberty sniffled. “Please don’t tell Daddy I went down the street!”

“We were just riding our bikes,” the little pig-tailed girl explained again. “Sometimes we take turns hitching a ride with Jack.” She reached up and patted her dark-haired brother. “It’s fun, but you hafta hang on.”

“It’s dangerous,” Bucky corrected her. “It might seem fun, but only one person to a bike, understand?” He addressed Libby this time, tone mildly chastising. “Your daddy is gonna find out anyway, kiddo. Your leg might be broken. Legs don’t normally bend that way…”

“Broken?!” Libby wailed and sobbed, and the other kids looked sheepish.

“I didn’t mean for her to get hurt,” Jack murmured guiltily. Bucky softened toward him.

“I know you didn’t. She’ll be okay, but she’s going to have to have that leg looked at.” In the meantime, as Bucky still spoke to the kids, Kitty was wigging out on the other end of the line.

“Bucky? You still there? I’m going to come and meet you,” Kitty told him.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” he let her know. “I don’t want to take her in my car. Moving her ourselves might hurt her.”

“You’re a paramedic!” she argued.

“One who’s off-duty and alone. If she has a concussion, she might need monitoring on the way over-“

“Mr. Barnes, I don’t feel so good.” Libby looked green around the gills and clammy. Bucky felt panic leap into his chest.

“Kitty, I’ll call the ambulance. You call Steve.”

*

By the time the ambulance reached them, Libby had thrown up and Bucky had sent Libby’s friends – the Powers, he later learned, Alex, Jack, Julie and Katie – on their way so they wouldn’t get in the way of his coworkers doing their job. Bucky was relieved to see it was Clint and Sam on duty.

“Isn’t this supposed to be your day off?” Sam accused as he and Clint wheeled down the stretcher. Clint knelt down by Libby’s side and offered her a calm smile.

“Hey there, gorgeous. Did you hurt yourself?” He opened up his case and took out a stethoscope and bp cuff. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“My leg,” she complained. “And I threw up.”

“I see that.” 

“She landed pretty hard,” Bucky supplied. Beside him, Kitty was fretting and slightly tearful.

“How old?” Sam asked.

“Eight. Or she will be in three days.”

“July Fourth?” Sam grinned for a moment. He nodded down to Libby. “Happy Almost Birthday, young lady.”

“Thank you,” Libby rasped, right before making puffy-cheeked faces and gagging sounds, and Clint squawked at the driver of the ambulance to bring down an emesis basin. The next few minutes were tense, a blur of questions, vitals, lifting Libby onto the stretcher and cleaning her sticky face.

“I want Daddy,” she moaned as they walked her up the ramp.

“It’s okay, kiddo. He’ll be here soon,” Bucky assured her. He nodded to Clint for permission, and followed them up briefly, holding her hand. “Kitty called him, and he’ll be at the hospital once you get there.”

“Is he gonna be mad?” Tears swam in her large blue eyes, and Bucky stroked her blonde wisps of hair back from her face.

“No, baby. He’ll be upset that you’re hurt, but he won’t be angry at you. Your daddy loves you and he’s going to be very worried.” That was the understatement of the year. According to Kitty, Steve wigged out when she told him, and he cut a client meeting brutally short to sign out.

“Don’t leave me! I’m scared,” she cried.

“Can Kitty ride with her?” Bucky asked them. Sam nodded.

“Just her, man,” he said apologetically.

“That’s fine. I need to meet her dad at the ER when she checks in. He’s not going to take this well.” Bucky backed his way down the ramp, and they let Kitty inside. Kitty stayed by Libby’s side, stroking her hair and telling her how brave she was, and Bucky’s insides twisted themselves up with regret. What a shitty way for Libby to start her summer vacation.

“These two will take really good care of you, sweetheart,” Bucky promised. “I’ll make sure your daddy gets to you as soon as he can.” They drove off, and Bucky hopped into his car, following them as traffic allowed. He took the sight of Libby’s tearful, unconvinced face with him.

*

Kitty was absolutely correct. Steve was wigging out.

He showed up at the ER after leaving his car with the parking valet, looking harried as he entered the front lobby. Bucky stood and signaled him quickly, and Steve’s eyes widened as he caught sight of him, but his face relaxed briefly.

“Tell me again what the hell happened?”

“The kids in the neighborhood were letting Libby tag along on the back of their bikes while she was skating. They stopped short. It was like playing ‘crack the whip’ while we were kids. She lost her grip and landed on her back. She was wearing her helmet.” Steve gripped the back of his hand and turned away for a moment, trying to bring himself under control. “Kid has a gift for nailing the tricky landing, Rogers.”

“Shit,” Steve hissed. He scrubbed his face with his palm and shook his head. “Where’s Kitty?”

“She’s in the ER with her now. I told them I was waiting for you, so they can buzz you back in.”

“I know how the ER works, Buck,” Steve snapped. Bucky huffed.

“Sorry. I’ll stay here while you go to the desk.” He nodded to Admitting, and Steve stalked off to speak to the receptionist. Bucky’s insides were roiling and knotted, riled up even more by the hostility and impatience in Steve’s tone. Bucky thought back to the first day that they met, and he knew this was in character for Steve when he was worried about his daughter. Bucky was used to younger patients having parents that turned into Mama and Papa Bear when they were seriously injured, and he’d learned not to take it personally. 

Bucky watched Steve digging in his wallet for Libby’s insurance cards and his ID, and, impressively, he fished out a folded up copy of Libby’s meds and allergies. Bucky sat and waited in the lobby, nodding when a young woman asked him if the seat next to him was taken. Bucky laid his jacket over it to save it for Steve and tried to distract himself with the golf game on the television suspended at a tilted angle from the ceiling. He heard bits and snatches of Libby’s history in Steve’s commanding voice, and his responses were clipped and rote. That made Bucky wonder how often Libby ended up in the hospital. Kids were like little petri dishes sometimes, trading germs with each other at school and on the playground. His sister Becca always kept a pack of Purelle wipes in her purse and was constantly swabbing her kids with them whenever they went out.

Bucky knew Steve occasionally had to take time off when Libby was home sick from school; he could always tell when he saw him coming up his front walk with several plastic CVS bags looped over his wrist, dressed in sweats and a beat-up hoodie instead of one of his elegant suits. It was even harder for him as a single dad of a little girl. Bucky still wanted _his mom_ whenever he got sick himself, for cryin’ out loud. Steve was wound up and terse as they asked him if he was Libby’s custodial parent. Bucky almost laughed when he heard Steve insist “It’s in the computer already. We were just here last month. NOTHING’S changed.” They _always_ asked.

The receptionist beckoned to the security guard to buzz Steve inside, and he stalked inside without giving Bucky a second look. Bucky felt miffed for a moment, but decided to let it go and to cut Steve some much needed slack.

He could chill out with some golf.

 

Forty minutes later, Steve came out, looking deflated and shaken. He joined Bucky and flopped into the uncomfortable waiting room chair. “This day just keeps getting better and better. I just signed the consent for surgery. Libby’s x-ray shows that she has a fractured tibia.” Bucky winced.

“Ooh.”

“They’re going to have to set it and pin it, and they’re keeping her overnight.” Steve rubbed his face and closed his eyes. “I must have fucked someone over in a past life. This feels like karma.”

“Kids break bones, Steve. They break bones because they’re _kids._ They’re known for doing some goofy shit. I know _I_ did,” Bucky assured him. Steve chuckled harshly.

“Me, too. Still… this _sucks._ ”

“Where’s Kitty?”

“She’s going to come out once I go back in. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t out here waiting for us all afternoon-“

“It’s no big deal. I wanted to make sure Libby was okay. How’s she holding up?”

“She’s a little trooper. She’s used to the ER, but… just not for broken bones,” he admitted. Steve sighed and tugged the hair at his nape. “Libby’s always had some medical issues, Bucky. I do what I can to keep her healthy, but it’s a full-time job. It’s hard without her mother around, and without mine. My mom was an RN. She passed away two years ago.”

“Oh, Steve… I’m so sorry.” Bucky reached over and gave Steve’s wrist a brief squeeze. His skin was so warm. Steve gave him a sad smile.

“Yeah. Thanks. She’d been sick for a while. Libby and my mom were crazy about each other, peas in a pod. She helped us out a lot when Sharon first left.”

 _Aha._ Bucky nodded. “Did she live close by?”

“We moved here to be closer to her. Sharon’s family is back in Phoenix, so she stayed out there. We came back to Brooklyn. Just traded hellacious summers for arctic winters, but it’s always felt like home.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Bucky told him. “I came back after I graduated from Ithaca.” Steve looked impressed.

“That’s a great school.”

“Yup. Liked it so much, I took an extra year to finish.” Steve grinned.

“Party animal?”

“Once upon a time.”

“Then you became a paramedic.”

“Let’s say I was inspired.” Steve raised his blond brows. 

“There’s a story behind that?”

“It’s a doozy. But we’ll save it for another day.” A brief wave of regret washed over Bucky, tainting his smile. Steve nodded easily.

“Fair enough.”

They saw Kitty rush out, and Bucky noticed that she looked shaken, her brown eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. Steve stood and met her halfway. “Steve, it’s my fault! I went back inside to wash up the dishes from lunch, I should have been watching her to make sure she-“

“Kitty, I know you didn’t mean for Libby to get hurt,” Steve assured her. He took her upper arms in his large hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “She has her old man’s crummy center of gravity. I was clumsy at her age and I didn’t have a fear gene.” Another tear rolled down her cheek, and Kitty shook her head.

“I’m so sorry…!” Her face crumpled before she covered it with her hands, and Steve pulled her in for a hug.

“I know you are,” Steve told her gruffly. Bucky stood and rubbed her back.

“She’s gonna be okay, Kitty. In a few weeks, she’ll be jumping off of rooftops.”

“God, I hope not,” Steve deadpanned. “I did that as a kid.” Bucky grinned sheepishly.

“Me, too.” Kitty made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob against Steve’s chest. She pulled back and stared up at him with questions in her eyes.

“If you don’t want me to watch her anymore, I’ll understand, Steve, but-“

“Kitty, Libby loves having you for a sitter. I’m going to be having a firm talk with her about staying within your sight and not piggybacking on her friends’ bikes anymore.”

“Bucky was fantastic,” she told Steve. She stepped away from Steve and gave Bucky a hug this time, making him suppress a yelp, but his arms wrapped around her easily enough in return.

“I’m just glad she woke me up, after all. I was dead asleep, but I decided to go to the gym after she woke me up to show me her skates.” Bucky smirked at Steve over the top of Kitty’s head. “That worked out well.” Steve’s face shifted from amused to chagrined.

“Oh, God, Bucky. Do you have to work tonight?”

“No. Don’t worry, Steve. She caught me on my Saturday, just a little earlier than usual. No harm done.” Kitty was still clinging to him. “Doing okay now?” She nodded, sniffling. Bucky was glad he didn’t have on his favorite shirt.

Bucky watched Steve head back into the ER, and eventually he caught them rounding the back hall toward the OR. “C’mon,” he told Kitty, tugging her along with him. “Let’s go wish them good luck.” They caught up to Libby, who had been changed into a pediatric gown printed with little yellow ducks. Steve was carrying her clothes, skates and helmet in two green drawstring bags labeled with her name. She was reclining on a gurney being pushed by a huge blond in navy blue scrubs whose name badge called him Victor C. 

“We can only let one parent into the OR waiting room,” he told them. He nodded to Bucky. “Thought this was yer day off, punk?”

“I took my work home with me. These are my neighbors.” Victor smirked and nodded.

“Don’t believe this guy. He just missed my pretty face so much he came runnin’ back in to work for free.”

“Wise guy. Don’t believe a word he says, Libs,” Bucky admonished.

“Okay,” she said solemnly, already nervous about going into surgery. Steve, Bucky and Kitty chuckled. Victor looked wounded.

“Yer gonna let these guys slander my character, little lady? I’m a stand-up guy! I’m the one whose gonna take you in to get some medicine to make your leg stop hurting, okay sweetheart?” Libby nodded, but her expression still wasn’t convinced. “Right. Not buying it. Most kids your age I meet don’t. Kiss everybody and tell ‘em see ya later,” he told her. Kitty knelt down and kissed her forehead, stroking back her blonde hair from her face, smiling reassuringly, red-rimmed eyes and all.

“Be good. You’re so brave, Liberty.”

“Don’t let this guy do any wheelies, okay, kiddo?” Bucky gave Victor his Sunday best stink-eye. Victor was the picture of innocence.

“Yeah, yeah… we’ll wait til they’re gone, kiddo,” he whispered down to Libby conspiratorially, winking at her. She giggled.

“Don’t encourage her,” Steve told him. “She already thinks she’s Evel Knievel.” Libby squirmed and craned her neck up from her pillow, staring at Bucky accusingly.

“Where’s my kiss?”

“Goodness, someone’s bossy,” he muttered, and with a quick glance at Steve to make sure it was okay, he lifted her hand to his lips, giving it a gentle peck. That made her giggle.

“Awright. We’re done here. C’mon, Dad.”

“See you later, baby,” Kitty called after them as Steve and Libby departed through the automatic door once Victor scanned his badge against the plate.

*

Steve returned to the lobby, looking exhausted and fretful. “I’m gonna take these things home and pack Libby a bag.”

“Do you want us to stay?” Kitty offered.

“No. The fixation and reduction is going to take about an hour to an hour and a half,” Steve told her. “That gives me time to at least change and check the mail before they come out to meet me.”

“Have you eaten?” Bucky inquired. Steve shrugged.

“Didn’t get around to it. I’ll pick something up.” Bucky eyed the lobby clock, noting it was already a little after three. Steve had to be famished.

“I’ll head back, too,” Bucky told him. “Kitty, I’ll give you a ride back.”

“Sweet. Thank you, I was just gonna ask. Steve, do you need anything?”

“Just a quick run back to the house. I’m good.” Kitty hugged him again, and he sighed heavily.

“I hate seeing her hurt.”

“Me, too.” Kitty backed away and looked at Bucky expectantly.

“My chariot awaits. Later, Steve.”

“Bye, Buck.” They parked in different levels of the garage, and Steve managed to pull out first. On the ride home, Kitty chatted with him, but Bucky’s mind was running a mile a minute, pulling together a plan. By the time he dropped Kitty back off at Steve’s to get her own car, he already had a list of tasks to fill up the rest of his Saturday. Bucky went into his kitchen and rummaged in his fridge and cabinets for ingredients. A half an hour later, he heard Steve’s front door and car door slam over the sounds of two sizzling pans on his stove. Bucky busied himself washing dishes while they cooked, making sure he had enough clean Tupperware for two.

*

By the time Libby was wheeled upstairs to her room in the hospital bed, she was still woozy and grumpy. Her leg was elevated on two fluffy pillows and wrapped in a bright blue plaster cast. The post-anesthesia care RNs put a few American flag stickers on it to decorate it when they saw Libby’s birthdate on her wristband, but Libby was too out of it to appreciate them.

Steve was a knackered, worn-down mess, reading the fracture care pamphlets and patient instructions on the ride up in the elevator and reviewing Libby’s prescriptions with the receiving nurse. He waited in the hall while Libby was wheeled into the room, weighed, medicated, vitals taken, hooked up to her IVs and monitors and the nutrition aide went over her diet with the nurse and took her order for a tray. By the time they let him into the room, Steve was just as anxious as Libby. “Hey, sweetheart,” he crooned. Her face puckered up, and she held her arms out to him.

“Daddy…”

“I’m here, sweetie, it’s all right. It’s all right.” Steve lowered the safety rail, eased himself carefully onto the edge of the bed and scooped her into his embrace, peppering the top of her head with kisses.

“Are you mad at me, Daddy?”

“No. I was just scared. I don’t like it when my baby gets hurt. I was just very, very worried, Liberty.”

“I went out of the cul-de-sac,” she confessed miserably. “Now I can’t go swimming. I can’t get my stupid cast wet.”

“I know, baby. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better hold him to that,” Bucky told her as he walked through the door carrying a gorgeous mylar balloon shaped like a butterfly and a lunch sack that smelled mouthwatering. “This is a good time to negotiate while your pop’s still tired, Libs. What’re we thinking? New X-box? A tablet? My Little Pony boxed set DVDs? Ya gotta think big, kiddo.” Libby smiled wanly and waved.

“That’s a big balloon!” she told him.

“It’s all yours.” Bucky let the weighted end of the string drop to the floor so it could bob freely. Libby reached for it with interest. “Cool cast.”

“I hafta wear a cast,” she complained.

“You’ll be the coolest kid in school on the first day,” Bucky promised. “Everyone will want to carry your books and ride in the elevator with you.”

“I don’t get to swim!”

“Awwwwww…” Bucky made an emphatic frowny face. “We’ll figure out something to cheer you up, kiddo.” He elbowed Steve, making him grunt in surprise. “We’ll figure out something to cheer up your dad, too. He’s being a grumpy butt right now.”

“Am _not_ ,” Steve insisted in his grumpy voice as he adjusted Libby’s pillows. Bucky winked at Libby, mouthing the words _Is, too_.” Libby smirked.

“What’s in the bag?” Steve asked.

“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in, just a boring old casserole with some meat and veggies and stuff that you wouldn’t be interested in at all…” Bucky joked, but Steve pinned him with a look.

“Just surrender the casserole, and nobody gets hurt.”

Steve _inhaled_ it. He was scraping the inside of the Tupperware with the fork for the last bits while Libby toyed with the hospital’s idea of red jello and some bland turkey and gravy. They watched Libby scan through the meager selections of kid’s shows on the hospital’s cable until she found an episode of Spongebob.

“I never did get this show,” Bucky admitted.

“Are you kidding? I’m addicted,” Steve admitted. “The guy who voices Spongebob does the voices for a whole bunch of other shows, too. He’s a genius.”

“This show’s just weird,” Bucky insisted. “If they’re underwater, how do they drive?”

“They drive _boats,_ ” Libby explained, as though he was deficient.

“Oh. Well, excuse me.” Bucky looked fairly chastised.

By about the third episode, Bucky developed an appreciation for the music on the show, and he decided he could relate to Squidward on a deeper level than he would admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're Squidward?! I'm Squidward! WE'RE ALL SQUIDWARD!!!"
> 
> *ducks tomatoes*


	3. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never know what you'll see and hear over the fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggestions for situations that you would want to see between Bucky and Steve are welcome. I'm running out of steam a little.

Bucky furtively punched the time clock, irritated with himself for being late. He rummaged in his Dickies' pocket for his locker key and hurried to stow his stuff.

"Wondered when you were gonna get here, Barnes." Clint sounded less than sympathetic.

"It's the man of the hour," Sam agreed as he checked his watch. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, Barnes?" Bucky's eyes were slightly bloodshot and tendrils of hair escaped his ponytail. He made a sound of annoyance as he put away his jacket.

"Yeah, yeah..."

“Save that winning attitude for the next time that you work day shift. You’re a real live wire,” Clint added. “What held you up?”

“Believe it or not, a three-car wreck on the corner of School Street and Main. Nothing serious, but everyone rubbernecked their way through the intersection like they were watching American Idol.”

“And we didn’t get called,” Sam remarked. “Guess our jobs aren’t as secure as we thought.”

“Yo, Bucky,” Clint piped up, holding up the full decanter. “I just made coffee. Come and take a hit. Or five.”

“Natasha,” Bucky said, beckoning to the petite redhead in paramedic gear reading a People magazine at the round break room table, “please, pretty please tell me you brought some of your special, super duper flavored creamer?”

“Second shelf on the left, wuss.” She licked her finger and flipped the page. “So, what’s the deal, Barnes? Are you coming to our get-together on Saturday night?”

“I don’t know. I might be on call that night and on Sunday.”

“Actually, you’re not.” Bruce walked in, nodding to Bucky as he cleaned his glasses on his scrub shirt. “They just updated the schedule. You’re taking call on Monday instead.”

Bucky grunted, brows drawing together. “Why?”

“Because Maximoff is taking the weekend call shifts before he goes on vacation. He’s taking off to Bermuda for two weeks.”

“Guy’s always taking vacation,” Nat grumbled sourly. “Must be nice.”

“It’s Pietro’s world,” Sam told her. “We just live in it.” But Nat switched gears, going back to her previous topic.

She turned to Bucky. “So, you’re going, right? On Saturday?”

“What was the plan again?” Bucky poured a generous pool of hazelnut creamer into his commuter mug of coffee. He only stopped pouring when Nat made throat-slicing motions with her finger. Her expression promised painful death if he finished the whole thing.

“Saturday. Harry’s Hideaway. Paquiao fight. And Thor’s gonna be in town.”

“He’s back from Oslo already?” Bucky asked her as he put the bottle back in the fridge.

“Yup. Couldn’t stand another minute away from Jane.”

“is she coming, too?”

“No. Definitely not. But Thor is planning to stop in for a hot minute when they come up for air.”

“I’ll take a look at my calendar.”

“Your calendar,” Clint scoffed, giving Bucky’s shin a little kick with his boot. “Listen to this guy!”

Bucky dimly wondered what Steve was doing on Saturday night. On _any_ Saturday night.

*

Steve forgot what it felt like to be able to make plans on a Saturday night. He pondered that the next morning as he read the headlines on his phone screen.

His daughter, on the other hand, had grandiose plans that involved a trip to Red Box, s’mores and pizza.

“Julie wants to come over for a sleepover, Daddy. Luna might want to come, too.” Libby plowed through her bowl of rice Chex mixed with the last of the box of honey nut Cheerios. Steve was thrifty about cereal and not wasting the last of a perfectly good box, even if there wasn’t a whole serving left in the bottom of the bag inside.

“That sounds ambitious. Two friends, Lib?” It sounded suspiciously like a slumber party. That had been Sharon’s area of expertise, and Steve inwardly shuddered at the thought of the last one his daughter had, complete with tantrums over who slept on which side of the floor, a stolen pillow, and one guest having a little too much water before bedtime. _It wasn’t pretty._ Sleepovers meant endless sniggering gossip, stuffed animals everywhere and a huge mess to clean up in his living room the next day.

Libby took that moment to turn enormous, shining blue puppy dogs on him, and he felt himself cave. “Please, Daddy? If I don’t invite Luna, her feelings will be hurt.”

He couldn’t argue with that logic. _Damn it._

Steve sighed, throwing up his hands. Libby hopped up out of her seat and tackle-hugged him around the waist. “I love you, Daddy!”

“I love you, too. Hey,” he told her as she shuffled back into her chair to finish breakfast, “that means I want chores done before anyone comes over, okay?” Libby nodded solemnly as she took a big bite of cereal. A drip of milk escaped the corner of her mouth, and Steve made swiping motions to her to wipe it up. “That means bed made, vacuuming, helping me clean the bathroom and polishing the furniture first…”

“Awwwwww!”

“Libby…”

“Cleaning the bathroom’s hard!” she complained. 

“If I clean the bathtub and mop, you can do the rest,” Steve allowed. Parenting a daughter often involved a lot of negotiating. “Fair?”

“Yes.” She dialed down her pout a notch, then started swinging her feet as she finished her breakfast. Libby’s attempts at scrubbing the ring out of the tub resulted in most of the gray, smudgy scum left behind, along with a healthy amount of bluish Comet sprinkled over it. But spritz some Windex on the mirror and hand her a paper towel, or give her a toilet brush, and the kid was a pro. Steve picked his battles. She was slowly getting better at dishes, leaving less food behind on them and having less of a free-for-all with the bottle of Dawn soap. For that very reason, he stopped buying the pink kind…

Steve went back to his reading and coffee, mindful that he still needed to put on his work shoes and gather up his keys and wallet. “Daddy?” Libby asked furtively, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. Her expression was a bit too intense for a child of nine. Steve had the strange feeling in his bones it was gonna be one of _those_ questions, right up there with “Why can you pee standing up and I can’t, Daddy?” or “When is Mommy coming back home to live with us?” The latter, thankfully, was becoming less frequent, but it still chafed.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

“My chest hurts,” she announced. Steve felt a frisson of panic and set the phone down, staring at her. She didn’t look distressed, but his jaw worked.

“Honey, are you okay? Where does it hurt?” He got up and automatically checked her pulse in her neck, feeling her forehead, then lightly tapped the center of her chest. “Here? Where?”

“Both sides,” Libby informed him, voice sounding uncertain.

“Uh… both?” His brows drew together. Libby stared down at her lap as her father sat back on his haunches, taking her hands in his. “A lot?”

“Uh-uh. Mostly when I run or I jump up and down.”

It dawned on him, and Steve promptly flushed beet red.

“Right. Uh. Okay. So… let’s plan to call up Aunt Peggy tonight, okay, kiddo?”

*

On Friday morning, Bucky caught up with Steve on his way in through the front door, grateful as all get-out that he had a real weekend to look forward to for a change. Steve, on the other hand, looked harried but like he was doing his best to hold it together while Libby filled his ear, chatting a mile a minute.

Most of what Bucky caught sounded about like the following:

“… and then, Julie said that Franklin stole her pencil box, and Mrs. Grey held him in from recess, and she got mad at him and kicked him and took it back, and then she got a demerit, because Franklin is a jerk, anyway, and by the way, Daddy, I need new erasers, all of mine are broken-“

“Right. Franklin. That Richards kid, right? Don’t kick people, Libby. He _sounds_ like a jerk. We’ll hit CVS tonight.” 

His answers were so pat and automatic that Bucky wondered how he caught all of it, when the words just rattled breathlessly out of Libby’s mouth.

“… and Daddy, can we get pepperoni? Luna wants vegetarian, but no one else likes that kind of pizza. And we need root beer for root beer floats, and-“

“Floats or s’mores. One or the other. Not both. And we’ll get one pie with half cheese only. Hey, Buck.” Steve looked grateful for adult attention at that moment as he keyed open his car door to let Libby climb inside. She was almost old enough for the front seat, Bucky noticed, wondering why that struck him all of the sudden. He remembered always fighting for shotgun with his sister Becca back in the day, before cars had airbags. Bucky waved to him, grinning.

“And he’s off to the races,” he told Steve. “Hey, Libs.”

“Hi, Mr. Barnes! Hey, Mr. Barnes, we’re having a sleepover tomorrow!”

“Wow. Sounds like big doings.” Bucky smothered a hint of disappointment. That left asking Steve if he wanted to watch the fight off the table. 

“We’re gonna rent the Hunger Games and Divergent! And we’re having pizza and doing manicures!” Libby kept leaning out the back around the edge of the seat while Steve was trying to close up the car and get in. 

“Libby, sweetie, we’ve got to go, and Mr. Barnes wants to go to bed,” Steve reminded her gently.

“Have you ever watched Hunger Games?” Libby added anyway, despite her father’s discomfiture. Steve rolled his eyes and gave Bucky a helpless smile.

Bucky adored that smile. He smirked back and listened patiently to Steve’s little girl prattling on.

“I’ll have to put it on the list, kiddo.”

“It’s been on ours for a while, too,” Steve admitted. “We don’t always make it to the theater.”

“I can’t always stay awake for the theater,” Bucky countered. “Call it a night job problem.”

“Call it an _old people_ problem,” Steve argued.

“Hey, speak for yourself, pal!” 

Libby giggled. “You’re not that old, Daddy.”

“Oh, gee, thanks!” Bucky stuck out his tongue at Steve. Steve glanced in his rearview mirror for a moment to make sure it was safe first, and Libby wasn’t watching him, so he furtively flipped Bucky the bird. Bucky’s eyes grew round. “Welp, gotta go to work!” he called out cheerfully before Bucky could take umbrage. Steve’s eyes were wicked, those deep pink lips smirking at him, making Bucky want unreasonable things.

“Punk,” Bucky muttered under his breath. But he grinned and waved at Libby, whose hand was flying back and forth fit to fall off from the back seat. Bucky headed inside his house and dialed Sam to let him know that he was open for seeing the fight. Just him.

*

Steve heard the knocking above the racket of Libby running the vacuum, steadfastly running into every stick of furniture and wall corner they had. “Shoot,” he muttered, then yelled, “Libby, go ahead and turn that off, sweetie!” He went to answer the door. “Who is it?” he asked anyway, but some part of him hoped it was Bucky, because it would be a nice reprieve. Once in a while, he stopped by before he went to work, and Steve liked seeing him dressed in his paramedic gear and boots.

It was a guilty pleasure. Don’t judge him.

“Just me,” Peggy called through the door. Steve grinned and yanked it open, and Libby beat him to the punch, face lighting up as she galloped down the hall to glomp her favorite great-aunt.

“AUNT PEGGY!”

“Oof… oh, my goodness, how you’ve grown,” Peggy grunted, chuckling over Libby’s enthusiasm. “I’m glad to see you too, duckie.” She fondly stroked the towhead blonde hair and kissed the top of Libby’s head, noticing she didn’t have to bend over to do it anymore.

“I missed you,” Libby complained. She pulled back for a moment, looking up at her expectantly. “Aunt Peggy, I’m getting boobies.”

Steve was impressed. Peggy didn’t laugh. Her expression was deadpan and solemn, but Steve caught the way her dark, tapered brows arched with the news.

“Goodness. This is very serious, indeed.”

“Do you need money?” Steve asked.

“I’m fine. I missed her birthday. We’ll make a day of it,” she promised over Libby’s head. _Just nine,_ she mouthed.

_I know,_ Steve mouthed back, feigning horror. 

Peggy gave Libby a quick peck. “Go. Shoes.”

“I’m vacuuming,” Libby informed her.

“So I heard!”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. Just go get ready.” 

“YAY! Libby hustled off to find her purple Converse low-tops and favorite denim jacket. 

Steve expelled a breath. He gathered Peggy up in a gentle hug. “Thank you. God bless you for doing this.”

“I wouldn’t make you suffer the women’s changing room, darling. Or the attendant when she gets a fitting.”

“A _fitting_?” Steve looked mortified. “They don’t just… come in small, medium and large?”

“No, darling. It’s not a pack of tighty-whities. A young lady’s first proper foundation undergarment is an _event_. I plan to help her observe it properly.” Peggy gave him a smug look. “How much of a heart attack did you have when she told you, love?”

“Just a minor one.” His life had flashed before his eyes.

“Liar.”

“I’m not ready for this.”

“Yes, you are, Steven. Our next stop is to Walmart to pick up a shotgun.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. 

“I would have known what to do with a son.” Steve sighed, and for a moment, he looked sad. “Sharon should be here for this.”

“I know, darling. And I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this part alone.” Peggy had another thought. “Have you had the talk?”

“Covered the birds and the bees. Just not the ‘other stuff.’ I was hoping that would be where you come in.” Steve wasn’t well-versed in feminine protection or PMS, despite five fractious years of marriage. He just knew there were five days out of the month that he could rely on having his head bitten off and spit out, and that it was wise to make himself scarce when his wife came home with Reese’s cups, the Costco-sized bottle of Advil, and boxes of Tampax.

“Make way for the master, darling.” Peggy’s brown eyes crinkled with amusement. “You’re doing an excellent job.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing it, anyway. That’s what counts.” She looked up at the sound of Libby’s feet hammering down the stairs, dressed and anxious to go. Before she could crowd her aunt out the door, Steve gestured, pointing to his cheek and leaning down. Libby gave him a dutiful peck.

“Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you, too. Be good. Don’t overdo it at the store.” Instead of giving Peggy money, he reached into his wallet and handed Libby a five. “If you see something you can’t live without while you guys are doing your thing.”

“Soft pretzels!” Libby announced gleefully. She gave Steve another kiss, and dimly he dreaded the day when that impulse would become less frequent on his daughter’s part. Peggy saw that look on his face and lightly punched his shoulder.

“Come along, sweetheart. Send out the search dogs if we’re not back in two hours.”

“Ooookay…” Libby held up his hand to interject one last thing, but they hustled out the door, and Libby let it bang shut, making him clap his mouth shut. “That,” he muttered under his breath, “was _scary_.”

 

Bucky caught the sound of the slam from over his hedge while he neatened it up with his Black and Decker loppers. He watched a good-looking woman roughly May Parker’s age with graying brown hair and impressive posture herd Libby toward her silver Crown Victoria. Libby caught sight of him and waved, looking excited about her trip out.

“Hi, Mr. Barnes!”

“Hi, sweetie.” He nodded to the woman with her, noticing a faint resemblance. “Hello.”

“Libby, introduce me to this nice man,” she suggested kindly. She gave Bucky an appraising look that made him slightly self-conscious.

“Mr. Barnes, this is my Aunt Peggy,” she told him. “We’re going shopping for-“ Peggy’s hand automatically snapped out and muffled Libby’s next words.

“Necessities,” she supplied with a quirk of her lips. “Let’s let Mr. Barnes get back to what he’s doing, dear. Let’s not overshare.”

Bucky almost didn’t want to know. He smiled winningly. Libby’s eyes were full of mischief behind her glasses. 

“Fair enough. Nice to meet you, Peggy.”

“Likewise, dear.” She turned her attention from him and waved across the street to May, who was walking Ms. Lion while the evening was beginning to cool down but was still pleasantly bright. “Hello, dear!”

“Hello, Peggy!” she called back. “Have a nice time with Auntie, Libby!”

“I will!” Libby bellowed as she scrambled into the car. “Bye, Mr. Barnes!”

“See you, kiddo.”

*

Steve finished all of the chores that Libby had started, wrangled two loads of laundry and finished making dinner by the time they got back, even though they likely already picked something up. He played a little eighties rock on his stereo while he cleaned, glad for it when he was alone. It was hard to string together two coherent thoughts when his daughter’s X-Box or her cartoons were blaring in the background. She graduated from Spongebob, though, to his immense disappointment, and began DVR’ing episodes of _Big Time Rush_ , making him suffer through the songs, Monkees-style slapstick and cloying dialogue. Libby also had a fixation with solo female artists in drafty costumes that sang in shrill octaves whenever they were in the car, tuning his Pandora to her Ke$ha or Rihanna stations when he plugged in his Bluetooth.

His time to himself was at a premium when he wasn’t working. Once Steve clocked out at work and drove home to meet and relieve Kitty, his daughter was his world. Homework, gymnastics classes – not Libby’s forte, but she enjoyed it – Girl Scouts meetings, homework, paying bills, excavating her backpack to find all of her permission slips and school memos and overdue library bills, and then “quality time” in the form of watching Wrestlemania together or letting her read to him took precedence over everything else. It was exhaustive and consuming, but Steve adored Libby, and the struggle was worth it.

He no sooner took a bite of steak when he heard a knock on the front door again. Steve hastily chewed it and wiped his mouth. “You guys are getting back late,” he called out as he came down the corridor, “did you buy out the whole mall? I hope you’re hungry, I made-“ His voice died off when he unlocked and pulled open the door.

“Hey, Rogers.”

“-steak. Hey. Um… did you… did you eat yet?”

“I did. Just heading to work.” Because of course he was, and the work clothes explained it, along with the slick, neat ponytail and light scent of his aftershave. He held out a handful of envelopes. “They put your mail in my box by mistake.”

“Thanks. ‘Preciate it, Buck.”

“No worries. So, your baby girl’s auntie is visiting?”

“Oh. Yeah! Peggy. Her great-aunt, actually. My wife’s aunt,” he qualified. “So she’s a little older.”

“Looks like she’s a riot. I met her for a second tonight before they left.” Bucky rubbed his nape, not wanting to leave for work yet, but the clock was ticking. It was nice to talk to Steve. “What was their plan of attack for going shopping? Libby looked pretty excited.”

Steve was at a loss. He stammered, mouth opening, then shutting. He turned beet red, and it was the cutest thing Bucky ever saw. “Well… um. Yeah. They went… shopping for girl’s stuff.”

The lightbulb went on in Bucky’s eyes. “Geez. Wow. Is she _that_ old already?”

“Not… quite. Sort of. I got the “Daddy, I’m getting boobies” speech at breakfast.” Bucky facepalmed, ducking his face and snickering. Steve gave him a look, and Bucky laughed with less restraint. He clapped his shoulder, squeezing it.

“Poor bastard.”

“Thanks. Really. Thanks for being so sympathetic.”

“I grew up with sisters. I’ve been down this road.” 

“Lucky you…” Steve sighed and sagged against the doorway. “I got nuthin’. I’m clueless.”

“This is the fun part.” Bucky had a thought. “Have you given her ‘The Talk?’” He made quotey fingers.

“Birds and bees, yes. The ‘everybody’s hands stay above the waist until you’re 30’ talk, no.”

“Right. Get ready to buy a shotgun.” Hearing Peggy’s words coming out of Bucky’s mouth made Steve’s brows slam together, making that cute little divot that Bucky was so fond of.

“Seriously?” Steve threw up his hands.

“Have fun with that. Steak smells good, by the way.”

“Have a good night at work,” Steve told him, “jerk.”

“Okay, punk.” Bucky gave him a cocky little salute before he trotted down Steve’s porch steps. Steve found himself staring at Bucky’s butt, taut, rounded and tempting in his dark Dickie’s work pants, mesmerized by how it rippled when he walked, until he heard a car door slam and saw Peggy and Libby walking up his driveway. Steve felt his blush come back as Bucky waved at Libby and Peggy as he headed to his own car. If he didn’t know better, he could swear that Peggy caught him appreciating Bucky’s assets, and her eyes assessed him as they came inside.

Libby, thankfully, had no clue what transpired between the adults. “Daddy!’ She ran at him for a full-on glomp, eyes glowing. “Guess what?”

“What, sweetie?” he asked weakly, seriously not looking forward to anymore surprises for the day.

“Ta-da,” Peggy trilled dramatically, and she lifted up Libby’s hair from her ears, revealing two sparkly little Hello Kitty studs. 

Steve was agape. Again. “Pierced ears… okay. So, maybe we didn’t go over the part where we needed to ask Daddy for permission…?” He gave Libby a look. She shrugged, trying to repress a grin.

“Aren’t they pretty, Daddy?” she attempted.

“Indeed, Daddy, aren’t they pretty?” Peggy prodded, giving him a “just go with it” look over his daughter’s head.

Steve was at a loss. Again. “You have to take care of them,” Steve reminded Libby. 

“Here’s the bag of ear cleaner. Those are white gold posts, so she won’t be allergic to them.” Peggy handed him the little string-handled accessory bag, drawing his attention to all of the _other_ bags looped by their handles around her wrist.

“We had fun!” Libby cheered as she ran inside the house and up the stairs.

“Come back and put your things away!” he called helplessly after her. “After I look it over,” he promised Peggy in sotto voce. “Peg… geez. What on earth did you two _do_?” They brought the bags into the living room and spread them out on the table.

“So, we got a little carried away. But we had a grand time, darling.” Steve began emptying the shopping sacks and his eyes boggled at riot of various girly pink items that looked like they cost a small fortune. Fat little bottles of nail polish; compacts of lip balm shaped like eggs – Steve had no clue – the safe little training bras in washable cotton with the prerequisite bow in the middle; cotton panties in every color, none of which had any cartoon characters or days of the week printed on them; a new hairbrush and wide-toothed comb, a small jewelry box; a roll of Speed Stick Ladies deodorant in “Powder Fresh Scent,” which raised his eyebrows, and a pack of pink plastic Bic razors.

“Isn’t this a little soon?” he asked weakly.

“Just wait for it. Doesn’t take long for everything else to begin at this point.” She delivered the killing blow with the pack of napkins. “Put these away and pray that you get at least a two-year reprieve. Maybe three.”

“Oh, God.”

“Stop looking like you want to cry,” she scolded. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“My life is over…”

“You’re welcome.” Peggy kissed the top of his head. “She wasn’t going to stay little forever.” Steve chewed on this for a moment before Libby came back, pawing through her purchases.

“This one’s my favorite, Aunt Peggy.”

“Put them in your drawer, dear. 

Steve received a stern injunction under Peggy’s breath not to cry again as he served them a late dinner. By the time Peggy left and Libby was tucked into bed, Steve was worn out, mind reeling.

*

Maybe it really _had_ been a long time since Bucky had last gone out. His mind was reeling from the crowd buffeting him as they made their way into the sports bar and waited for a beer at the counter.

“Does _no one_ in this town have Pay-Per-View?” he yelled into Sam’s ear as his friend dug into his wallet for a couple of twenties. Sam gave him his famous gap-toothed grin and playfully elbowed him.

“It’s like moths to a Bug Zapper,” he shouted back. “And we got here pretty early!” The opening fight was showing on three big screens at Harry’s. Sam ordered two pitchers and nodded to Bucky to get them some glasses. The one time that Bucky had come back to the table with red Solo cups, Sam accused him, and rightly so, of being a Philistine. They headed toward the back of the bar, where Clint was already playing darts. Natasha was toying with her smartphone, texting someone. She perked up when Bucky appeared, then dragged him over by the arm to the table she’d secured.

“You showed up, good! And you’re dressed,” she observed, taking in his snug Under Armour tee, jeans, short boots and open buttondown with the sleeves rolled up. “You’ll do.”

“Um… I’ll do, for what, exactly?” Nat scared him when she said things like that. It was a calm, assessing little smile, harmless at first glance until she was asking him to help her move or to pill her cat.

“I have a friend joining us,” she announced cheerfully.

The color drained from his face. “Oh, God, no. Nat.” She grinned. “Nat. Seriously?!”

“She’s nice. She’s _cute_!”

“No, and _no._ ” Bucky despised being set up. It never worked out. It didn’t matter who set him up, either. On his own, Bucky made relatively safe choices, but left in his friends’ hands, he ended up with a cast of characters parading their way into his passenger seat.

“She’s an LVN,” Nat urged. “Pretty sane. She’s our age. She’s in my Zumba class.” Because of _course_ she was. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I _really_ don’t dig it when you spring this stuff on-“

Nat’s green eyes swam over his head toward the front of the bar, and she waved wildly, cutting him off. “ALLISON! Over here! Come and meet Bucky!”

“-me.” Natasha ignored him, working her way through the crowd to retrieve her friend. He turned to Sam and Clint, making a shooting motion at his temple. “ _Whyyyyy-eeeeeeee?_ ” he moaned in the drone of the condemned.

“Better you than me,” Sam shrugged. He escaped any further of Natasha’s attempts at fixing him up when he met Monica Rambeau at a church function his mother brought him to, and he started going to services every week. 

“At least she likes boxing,” Clint pointed out. “That’s a plus, isn’t it?”

Before Bucky could reply, Natasha and her friend bore down on them, and for a breathless moment, Bucky was impressed. “Bucky, Alison Blaire. Al, this is James Barnes. He likes Bucky.”

“Like the younger brother on Fat Albert and the Cosby kids?” Ali piped up. Bucky’s eyes darted to Sam for a second, and he saw the maple-complected man shake his head emphatically, wincing and mouthing _No_ , then pretended he was rubbing a kink out of his neck when Natasha turned to introduce Ali to him, too, then Clint. Sam’s smile was benign and open when he shook her hand.

“It’s… like the president.”

“President… Bucky?” Alison’s eyebrows furrowed briefly. They looked like she had just had them waxed.

“Buchanan,” he told her cheerfully. She nodded, smiling reassuringly, and at least she had a nice smile.

“Yeah. That… explains how you get ‘Bucky’ out of ‘Jim.’” Bucky winced slightly, but maintained his smile. He hated being called ‘Jim.’ Alison was petite like Nat and athletically built, with jaw-length strawberry blonde waves and aquamarine eyes, a pert profile and creamy skin that, impressively, hadn’t been spray-tanned. She had a Jersey Girl manicure and hot pink streaks in the back of her hair, which was cut into choppy layers, the kind of cut that needed bi-weekly maintenance. Bucky _really_ wasn’t sure he was up for a girl who needed “maintenance.”

“Want a drink?” he offered when Natasha not-so-subtly kicked him.

“Beer’s fine… um, it’s light beer, right?”

Right.

Bucky headed to the bar with her request for a Bud Light, wondering when he’d kicked any puppies for his karma to have caught up to him. He scolded himself. Alison was nice. She was. She was just… he searched for the thing he wanted to put his finger on, but couldn’t.

“Can I help you, buddy?”

Oh, yeah… “One Bud Light,” Bucky told the bartender, Logan, the short, gruff one with the crazy muttonchops. Logan quirked his brow and took Bucky’s tenner.

“Comin’ up.”

“Just got fixed up,” he told him over the racket of the crowd.

“Yeah. Figured. Ya don’t seem like a ‘light beer’ kind of a guy,” Logan agreed. “How’s her laugh?”

“Haven’t heard it yet.”

“If ya can’t stand the sound of her laugh, then it’s a no-go. That, and if she puts her feet on the dashboard of yer car on the first date. That’s a dealbreaker. Woman’s gotta respect a man’s dash.” Logan drew the draft into a frosted mug and then shoved Bucky’s change at him. “Pay attention to the laugh, bub.”

Ali sipped her beer and sat closer to Bucky than was absolutely necessary as they watched the opening match, but by the end of the first round of the feature, she was prattling on autopilot, talking through the match, peppering him with questions.

“I’m going for my RN. It’s not just the earning potential. I just feel like it’s my calling. So, have you always wanted to be an EMT? Haven’t you ever considered RN school?” Her expression prodded him to agree with her. Bucky shrugged instead.

“No. I like being out in the field. I don’t want to be stuck in a ward for twelve hours, recording med doses and BM’s.”

“Well, there’s more to it than _that._ ” She laughed, and thankfully, she wasn’t shrill. Things were looking up. For the moment. “Did you get your certificate at a tech school, or real college?”

Okay. Never mind…

“Want another light beer? I’ll go get you one.”

*

Alison never made it as far as Bucky’s passenger seat, thankfully. They parted outside the bar after an awkward conversation full of dropped hints (Alison’s) and solemn claims of an early day tomorrow (Bucky’s). 

“Guess I’ll see you around,” Bucky told her before any numbers could be exchanged. Alison watched him for a moment, slightly stunned, smile falteringly. She turned to Nat, giving her an “Is he kidding me?” look. Natasha shrugged, looping her arm through Ali’s as they headed toward Clint’s Jeep. He’d sopped up his one beer at the beginning of the night with an indecent amount of honey roasted nuts and hot wings.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Bucky made it back to his car and saw Natasha’s text the minute he made it home. _Ali didn’t say to give you her number._

_There wasn’t any deal to seal,_ he texted back. _Planning to dry my lonely tears with some Game of Thrones._

She texted him back a smiley face, and Bucky saw the little pulsing bubbles on his screen showing that she was typing him something brilliant as he keyed his way into the house. Bucky locked himself in for the night, kicked off his boots by the welcome mat, and rummaged in the fridge for the bowl of leftover spaghetti before grabbing the remote. He no sooner scrolled down to the first episode on his playlist when Nat’s message popped up, this time with a row of grinning emoticons and kissy faces.

_We’ll give it another try next week. I’ve got another friend from spinning class. She’s an accountant._

“Shit…”


	4. Tithing Envelope Scribbles and Shirley Temples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat makes good on her promise, slowly but surely, no matter how much Bucky tries to dodge her matchmaking attempts. It ends up not awful.
> 
> Steve’s not sure what he thinks about the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m doing something that I usually don’t: I’m mixing my ‘verse of my own fics. Usually, my RoLo fic is Rolo, My LoMy fic is LoMy, my Stucky is Stucky… this fic’s verse is going to intersect with that of my RoLo story, Getaway, basically acting as a _prequel_ to that one (ignoring that I started writing that story about three years ago, but oh well). The thought occurred to me that I already have Victor in this story, whom I LOVE to use as a minor character, and Ali, who is ALSO a minor character in my Getaway piece, so it only makes sense to bring in another couple of familiar faces… mwahahahaha.
> 
> I never said I was sane…

Bucky heard Kitty’s car pulling up in Steve’s driveway next door as he poured himself his afternoon cup of coffee, right on schedule from Libby’s afterschool art program. Aside from being bookish, she was an impressive artist, and Bucky even had a few of her drawings taped to his refrigerator. When her art teacher made the class draw a picture of a vehicle, she was the only kid in her class who chose an ambulance instead of the more typical Hummers, sports cars and motorcycles. Libby was old enough not to necessarily _need_ the kids’ menu and crayons when she went out to eat with her dad, but that didn’t mean she didn’t _appreciate_ it. Once in a while, Bucky found himself invited to Friday night dinners at the Outback with the Rogerses, and Steve tried to head off a snit when Libby wanted to order a second blooming onion appetizer instead of sharing one and leaving enough room for dinner. 

“Don’t make a scene. That not how we act in a public place,” Steve murmured sternly to Libby, who was pouting by his elbow, arms folded across her chest.

“I don’t even _want_ dinner! I’m fine with the onion, Daddy!”

“It’s meant to tide you over, and you don’t need that much grease,” Steve argued. “If you keep up that attitude, we won’t order one at all.” Bucky nodded grimly, giving Libby his Sunday-best just-listen-to-your-pop look and a hum of agreement.

“It doesn’t have that much grease,” Libby countered.

“It’s fried. That involves grease,” Steve told her. “We’re having one to share. End of discussion, unless you keep making that face, in which case it’ll be none.”

“Someone might slap you on the back while you’re scowling like that, and it’ll freeze that way, kiddo,” Bucky reminded her. Steve narrowed his eyes and mouthed _Really, Buck?_ Bucky tried, and failed, to control his smirk. He ducked his face back into his menu, even though he knew he wanted the prime rib.

“Fine,” Libby snarled under her breath, and she turned to stare at the wall, arms still folded.

“Why don’t you color?” Steve suggested. “They left you some crayons.”

“Don’t feel like it.” 

“Libby,” Steve told her in a warning tone, and Bucky winced. He’d been on the end of that voice before as a very hyperactive kid himself. His dad was “old school” and wasn’t part of the “stop it or you’ll get a time-out” generation. “Straighten up, or we’ll go home.” Libby’s expression was still baleful, but she sat up straight, then busied herself with emptying a packet of sugar into her ice water. Just because she _could_.

"Shoot. Pass me the crayons, then," Bucky told her. She gave him a look that begged him if he was crazy. "You don't wanna color. Hand them over." Libby wrinkled her nose, but she shoved the small box of crayons across the table, along with her children's menu place mat. Bucky casually shaded in a picture of an alligator with the stub of dark green crayon, and Libby finally reversed her position - and adjusted her attitude - and grudgingly took up the red crayon, leaning across the table to help Bucky color in a hibiscus bush. 

“What are you getting for dinner?” Steve asked her gently.

“Chicken strips,” she muttered, with her face still set in concentration over the picture. Bucky handed her the green crayon back. “I want fries.”

“Mmmm,” Bucky agreed from behind his menu again. He winked at Steve furtively, smugly mouthing the word _Grease!_ He lowered the menu and peeked at Libby this time, then cracked a smile. Libby’s lips twitched, and she flushed, then ducked behind the adult menu, pretending great interest in it. Bucky chuckled under his breath. Kid was too easy, not unlike her dad.

Steve blushed like a raspberry at the drop of a hat. It was fun to watch. 

*  
Bucky talked him into joining his gym a year prior, even though Steve was addicted to his runs and usually went to the boxing gym downtown twice a week, even though it was a sweaty hole in the wall that smelled like a foot. It was nice to have a workout partner on weekends when Steve could join him on late mornings, but half the fun of Steve at the gym was watching his color rise all the way up to the roots of his hair and become a stammering mess whenever Bucky introduced him to any of his female friends. Introducing him to Natasha had been fun, since the tiny redhead peppered him with embarrassing personal questions within thirty seconds of meeting him, not satisfied with his initial answer of “I sell health plans” when she asked him what he did.

She tried to fix him up with her accountant friend. Steve glanced at Bucky, who briefly shook his head from where he stood behind Natasha. Steve’s eyes flitted to Bucky, then back to Nat before she could notice that he was staring back at Bucky over her shoulder.

“Uh… she sounds… nice,” Steve offered. “Um. I don’t… get out much. Nighttime. Getting a sitter. You know. Um. It was nice meeting you… Natasha?” Steve hurried off, but not before Bucky noticed his reddened cheeks. Natasha stared after him with annoyance etched across her features, throwing up her hand. Bucky snickered. 

“Hey, quit laughing! He would have liked Tory! You would, if you’d just get your head out of your ass and take her number from me.”

“Nat, please… No more fix-ups.”

“It wouldn’t even be a ‘fix-up.’ I keep telling her about you. It would be like she knew you, if you just asked her out.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Awwwwww!” Nat gave him the pout and stomped her foot like a child. “Don’t be such a poop.”

“I’m gonna go do arms.” He begged off from their chat, and he laughed a minute later when he caught her hopping on the treadmill, mouthing at him, _You suck._ She pounded the conveyor belt in her pink-and-white Asics Gels and skimpy Under Armour gear. Steve gradually made his way back to Bucky once he emerged from the locker room, and Bucky nearly lost it at the sight of him in _his_ Under Armour shirt and biking shorts.

“I’m gonna row. Come spot me later?” Steve asked easily.

“Um… s-sure.” Jesus, he was tongue-tied, fighting to look up at Steve’s face, not down at every contour of that body shrink-wrapped in dry-fit fabric and Lycra. Bucky’s mouth went dry and he felt his cheeks heat up.

Okay. So Steve wasn’t the only one who blushed.

Spotting Steve. Yeah. There was another laughing matter. He practically didn’t need it. It baffled Bucky that a guy who spent all day in meetings and at his desk schmoozing with underwriters and account managers looked like he could bench-press a Volkswagen. But Bucky spotted him when he came back from the rowing machine after a half an hour, skin gleaming with sweat, trying not to overfocus on the squeeze and flex of those pecs and that mouth… oh, that _mouth_ , as he exhaled with each rep.

Bucky fought the urge to adjust himself after Steve finished four sets. “Thanks, Bucky.” Steve tipped his canteen up to his lips and sucked down a few gulps of water, and Bucky did _not_ stare at the working of his throat with its taut cords of muscle, or the way he licked a bead of water from his lip.

He didn’t _stare_ , mind you. He _glanced_. His eyes swung away and he muttered something about wanting to work in a set. Steve beamed and wiped down the weight bench for him, beckoning to him to lie on it.

“Get a few in. Lemme know when you’re ready.” Bucky tightened the wraps on his hands and experimentally gripped the barbell. “Is that enough?” A couple of twenty-fives less on the bar, and it would be what Bucky normally lifted, but he wasn’t going to cop out. Looking up at Steve from his vantage point on his back was an opportunity Bucky wasn’t going to pass up. His arms burned after the first set of reps, but Steve coached him through it. Those robin’s egg blue eyes twinkled down at him as he rested between sets and slugged down some water, because _dayum_ that hurt. “Ready?”

Bucky nodded his assent, then questioned his choices a few reps later. A little divot of concern appeared between Steve’s sandy brows. “Keep pushing… breathe through it…”

“Ergh…” Bucky’s grunt didn’t come without a flushed face and the veins in his jaw and neck sticking out as he breathed, but he powered through it, and took a third set before he thought his arms might fall off.

“Want me to… y’know… take a couple of plates… off?” Steve suggested helpfully.

“No… no, I’m good.” Bucky was dying.

“Right.”

“Just a little winded.” And lightheaded, he refused to add.

“Fair enough.”

“Just need a second.”

“Take a few.” Steve grinned down at him and wiped down the barbell with his workout towel. He handed it to Bucky, who wiped off his sweaty palms, too. The last set was torturously slow. Bucky thought he popped a blood vessel. His counts turned into grunts, then slowly, painfully devolved into huffy little growls. Bucky felt his face making that telltale lifter’s grimace and the veins and cords of his neck sticking out like garden hoses.

“You’re good. You’re good, Bucky, c’mon, man, one more…”

“ _Eeearrrgggggghhhh…_ ” He felt Steve’s grip tighten incrementally on the barbell, ready to heft it out of his grasp and back onto the pegs in an instant, if Bucky indicated it. Stubbornly, Bucky finished the rep, then started another, and Steve made an impressed noise.

“That’s it, Buck. Someone ate their Wheaties today… c’mon, get it up there, c’mon, c’monc’monc’mon…”

“Eeerrrrggg…sssssSHIT… FUCK!”

“Just finish it, man, you can do it!” Bucky felt the gym rats surrounding them shooting him glances of pity and amusement, including a five-foot-nothing girl who didn’t weigh a buck-ten in a high ponytail, sun visor, full face of makeup and tennis skirt effortlessly curling a dumbbell as big as a space heater. “Get it up there, Buck! Get it up, Buck!”

Bucky was about to lose it at the sound of Steve telling him to “get it up.” He strained to finish the last rep, huffing “’nuff… please…”

“Gimme,” Steve ordered curtly, gripping the barbell and transferring it easily from Bucky’s sweaty hands to the pegs. He grinned down at him and handed him his workout towel and water bottle. “Not bad for an old man.”

“You’re four months younger than me, Steve. Four. MONTHS.”

Steve wrinkled his brow. “Wait… when is your birthday again?”

“March seventh.”

“Jerk! Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bucky gulped his water to divert from the effect Steve was having on him, still too close, still giving him that look. “Wasn’t anything to say. I don’t really do anything for it.”

“Well, it’s your day. It’s supposed to be special.”

“Says the man who celebrates his daughter’s birthday with awesome bounce houses but gets huffy when his coworkers bring him cupcakes in the office because it was ‘too much trouble.’”

“I didn’t get huffy about it. And my office looks for far too many opportunities to eat at their desks.”

“Fair enough.” Steve was staring at him thoughtfully. “What? What’s with the look?”

“Uh… nothing. Does… anyone else in your family have that cleft chin like yours?” 

“Got it from my dad.” Bucky tried not to read too much into it and he suppressed the spear of hope in his chest that Steve was _really looking at him, really SEEING him_. Steve was curious. He could mark it up to that. Steve could be a little dorky and had an artist’s eye for the little details that no one else gave a shit about.

Steve’s grin was impish. “Reminds me of the episode of Spongebob where Squidward got hit in the face and it made him handsome.”

Bucky swung out and slugged him in the shoulder. “You suck.”

*

When Libby came over to extend the invitation to dinner, Bucky heard her breathless pants, telling him she’d run from the car and up his steps. He opened the door to find her fighting a smile, eyes gleaming behind her thick glasses. She pushed them up on her nose with her finger, her customary habit as she greeted him.

“Mr. Barnes, guess what?”

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“I’ve got TINSEL TEETH!” And she flashed him a smile, dimples and all, revealing her new braces. 

“Wow,” he marveled. “That’s some tinsel. Do they hurt?”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I hafta wear ‘em for two years, then I have to wear a retainer.”

“And they cost a _grip_ ,” Steve said as he came up behind her on the porch, squeezing her shoulder. “Did you ask him?”

“Wanna come to the Outback with us?” She beamed up at him expectantly, and how could he resist that face, or the puppy dog eyes her dad was giving him? Bucky shoved aside his previous plan to get his hair trimmed at the beauty school before they closed and to take in a horror flick after in the face of all that blue-eyed charm.

That was how he ended up watching Steve cutting Libby’s chicken strips into absurdly tiny bites so the stringy bits of meat wouldn’t get stuck in the wires. If she wasn’t throwing a snit before, she was walking that line now. “Daaaaaaad,” she groaned. “Come _on!_ ”

“You have to be careful what you eat. You read the list,” he nagged, staring down into her plate instead of her face as he killed the chicken strip a second time with his steak knife.

“Let me cut it, then,” she complained, swatting his hands away from her plate indignantly.

“Think it’s dead now, Dad,” Bucky pointed out. Steve narrowed his eyes at Bucky, who winked back as he cut into his own prime rib. He made an obscene noise as he took the first bite. “It’s like butter,” he murmured happily.

“Can I try it?” Libby asked, staring at his plate with envy.

“Libs, let Bucky eat,” Steve admonished, but Bucky shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it. It’d be an injustice not to let her try it. You could practically gum this, it’s so tender.” Bucky cut a piece and transferred it to Libby’s plate, and her face lit up once she tasted it. “Huh? Huh? Good, isn’t it?”

She nodded as she chewed. “Uh-huh.”

“You would’ve been sad if you hadn’t left room for that with a second blooming onion,” Steve murmured as he elbowed his daughter, giving her a little triumphant look. She shrugged and proceeded to drown her decimated chicken fragments and seasoned fries in ranch dressing. Steve winced at the abuse of condiments but said nothing. Steve finally settled in to enjoy his porterhouse steak, and Bucky was amused to see that he cut his own meat into bites just as small and neat as his daughter’s chicken. At least he was consistent.

“I have to hit the mall when we’re done here,” Bucky mentioned. “I have to see what I can find that’s good enough for a wedding.” 

Steve perked up. “Peter and Gwen’s?” Bucky nodded, grinning.

“It’s been a while since I had to show up at one. Haven’t bought myself a suit in forever. I live in my scrubs and gear.”

“Never know. You might clean up nice, Barnes,” Steve teased.

“Daddy said Aunt Peggy is taking me to get a new dress,” Libby chimed in. “And she’s taking me to get my hair braided, too.”

“Sounds like you’ll outshine us all,” Bucky told her. “Hey, Libs, don’t forget to milk this for all it’s worth.” He leaned forward and cupped his hand around his mouth conspiratorially. “Make Dad throw in new shoes and a purse, too. And jewelry, go for the jewelry-“

“Hey. That’s enough out of you,” Steve muttered, but his eyes were twinkling. “Quit bein’ a bad influence on my girl, Barnes!”

“Someone’s gotta,” Bucky claimed as he dropped a generous dollop of sour cream on his baked potato. He winked at Libby and stage-whispered, “Jewelry.” She nodded emphatically and winked back.

“They’re having the reception at some country club in Long Island,” Steve mentioned. 

“Sounds fancy,” Bucky agreed. He added hard shoes to his shopping list, sighing. Weekends were for baggy shorts and Vans on his feet, but so be it. He already asked Pietro Maximoff to take his weekend call so he could have the time off. The invitation said he could bring a plus-one, but Bucky couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to ask.

Part of him indulged the smug, sneaky notion that he could stare at Steve all night at the reception, even if he couldn’t ask him to be his date. Technically, Libby would, anyway. He decided to tease Steve a little, because again, it was fun. “Make sure to put me on your dance card, Rogers.” Steve practically choked on his bite of steam. He coughed a little and shot Bucky an annoyed look as he took a gulp of water.

“Daddy, are you okay?” Libby murmured.

“Sorry, sweetie,” he rasped, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

“That’s what you get for trying to shove a whole cow down your gullet at once.”

“Yer a jerk, Barnes.”

Libby begged Steve to let them go to the mall with Bucky after dessert, hanging heavily on her father’s arm as she wheedled him.

“Let’s let Mr. Barnes shop in peace,” Steve chided. “He doesn’t need us tagging along.”

“But it’ll be fun, Dad!” she argued.

“It’ll be _fun,_ Dad,” Bucky mimicked, grinning, nonplussed. Libby loved any opportunity to hit the galleria, no matter who was offering, even though Bucky hadn’t formally offered yet. “It’s no big deal. If you guys need to head off, then go do your thing.”

“See, Mr. Barnes doesn’t mind!” Libby insisted, leaning and dragging on Steve’s arm and peering up at him with big, blue puppy dog eyes again. “Please, Daddy, pleasepleasepleaseohplease-“

“You still wanted to get a Red Box movie tonight, kiddo. Mall time cuts into movie time.”

“Good point,” Bucky said. Steve raised one tawny brow. Bucky smirked.

“I’d rather hit the mall when I’m fresh,” Steve admitted. “Once I settle in at home on the couch, I’m down for the count.”

“Then go on home,” Bucky murmured. “That’s fine, Stevie. Get some rest.” Libby howled in protest, pouting, but Bucky reached over and ruffled her blonde bangs. “Sweetie, we’ll all go if you want next time. That’ll be our first stop. And I’m shopping for boring, old man stuff. Not fun stuff, like Game Stop or Spencer’s. Tell you what, you head home with your pop and let him fall asleep in front of your movie this time, and next time, the three of us will hit the arcade and have Cinnabon, and I’ll pretend to let you kick my butt at X-Men vs. Capcom, okay?”

“You weren’t pretending last time!” she shrieked, but her pout was lifting slightly, and Steve looked relieved, and, Bucky noticed, kinda worn out. “I beat you fair and square!”

“I might have been holding back a little,” Bucky teased.

“Suuuuuure, you were,” Steve told him. Bucky stuck his tongue out at him. Libby giggled. “All right, kiddo, tell Mr. Barnes good night.” Libby released her father and stepped forward to hug Bucky, something he wasn’t quite expecting. He returned it gently, patting her towhead blonde hair. The contact and the snug squeeze of her skinny little arms gave him pleasant warm fuzzies.

“Be good, kiddo.”

“G’night, Mr. Barnes. Thanks for coming to dinner with us.” Bucky stifled a brief “awwww” of surprise. Kid had such good manners, but with Steve for a dad, it was no surprise.

“You don’t have to force me to eat steak, kiddo. Enjoy your movie.” He nodded at Steve, clapping him briefly on the shoulder. It was so tempting to let his touch linger, but he reined it in. “Catch ya later, Rogers.”

“G’night, Buck.” Bucky pretended for a moment that he saw a hint of regret in Steve’s eyes that they were cutting things short, or, maybe that was just him. And if he lingered a moment as he watched Steve herd Libby into their car, then you couldn’t judge him.

Night person that he was, Bucky got his second wind after 7PM. He cruised the mall among the dwindling crowd and made a beeline for Nordstrom Rack, figuring he could find something decent that wouldn’t break the bank. He picked out a pearl gray Stafford shirt and a dark blue silk tie with a faint stripe in the fabric, figuring it would bring out his eyes. A helpful salesgirl hovered nearby, offering to prepare a changing room for him, and he groaned to himself that a suit pretty much meant having to try the whole thing on. Shopping for grown-up clothes could be tedious. He wondered if it would’ve been more fun if he’d gone with Steve, after all.

Bucky began the laborious process of cajoling his body into the crisply starched clothes and padding out to the three-way mirror in his stocking feet to look himself over. The salesgirl’s eyes lit up as she offered him opinions that he didn’t exactly ask for, but she noticed the uncertain look on his face and went to town.

“That one’s nicer with a vest. But the two-button jacket works well without it. Want to see that suit in chocolate? You might be able to pull it off…” He began to answer her prodding questions with less restraint as she began to bring over armloads of hangers of things for him to try on, checking his size and for alternate colors and patterns on the ties and shirts, asking his opinion briefly on pleated front slacks versus flat, bending down alarmingly close to his crotch as she checked the hems. Bucky felt like he had his own personal assistant after a while as he began to hand her the blazers back as he removed them, and as she formed three “possibly, maybe, and definitely not” piles of returns.

By the time he let her ring up a sleek mocha-colored suit and more accessories than he’d planned, the overhead intercom announced that the galleria was closing in ten minutes. Bucky wondered where the time had gone. He snuck back out to the food court and picked himself up an Orange Julius to sip on his way home. By the time he walk in the door, he was bushed. Bucky stowed his purchases, put his depleted Julius in the fridge, and let Bear in for the rest of the night. His dog practically tackled him, snuffling at him and licking him everywhere that he smelled the telltale vestige of steak.

He had the dog curled against him on the couch and was halfway through his DVR’ed episode of Ink Masters when he heard his phone ping with a text. He groaned as he stretched and reached for it, then groaned at his little screen.

_Found you a date for the wedding. No need to thank me._

“Seriously, Nat?” he muttered aloud. Bear’s tail thumped itself against the cushions, and he nosed at Bucky’s face, licking him and shoving himself between Bucky and his attempt at a return text. “Giddown, Bear. Gimme a minute. Giddown…” He slid his thumb across the screen to open the message and hit the “call” icon. Nat picked it up on the first ring, naturally.

“So about that accountant friend of mine. She’s going to that wedding.”

“Small world,” Bucky huffed. “I was gonna go stag.”

“Technically, you still will be. She’s actually _in_ the wedding.”

“Oh.” Okay.

“She’s the tallest bridesmaid, and the only groomsman they could pair her up with is her ex, of all people.”

“Sucks to be her.” Bucky couldn’t even imagine having to walk down the aisle a second time with someone who it didn’t work out with the first time, even if he wasn’t the person getting married. “You said she’s tall?”

“She’s around your height in her flat feet.” Bucky hummed in approval. “She’s not bad looking, Barnes.”

“You were gonna set her up with Steve?”

“I was, but he bailed that one time.” Bucky snickered. “Don’t be an ass. He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. They’re both in health insurance, they could have talked shop.”

“Maybe Steve doesn’t want to talk shop,” Bucky pointed out. Bucky didn’t necessarily want to date another EMT and end up talking about traumas he’d attended over crème brulee. Yet small talk bored him to tears, too.

“Still. She’s nice. He should have given her a chance. What’s his story, anyway?”

“Not much of a story to tell. He’s divorced. Wife’s been out of the picture for a while. His daughter is ten going on thirty.” Bucky smiled to himself; Steve and his daughter had grown on him. “Doesn’t seem to have any real skeletons in his closet. He’s a real Boy Scout.”

“Don’t make me any more pissed that he turned down the chance to meet Tory.”

“Why does she need your help finding a date?” Bucky wanted the straight shit from Nat. “Is she a little psycho?”

“No. Jerk. No. She’s divorced, too, and it was ugly.” That’s when it hit Nat. “That’s right. You hang out with Vic, dummy. She’s his ex.”

“Holy crap.” Bucky had heard the rumors. Victor, the big blond bear of a perioperative nurse, had been running around and hooked up with a tall, buxom brunette. They ran into him at Harry’s one night, and Victor cringed slightly when Bucky and Sam came up and greeted him, tightening his arm protectively around her and mumbling a grudging “This is my friend, Raven.” Victor’s wedding ring was conspicuously absent. He’d never met his wife before, because of rumored friction between them that made her refuse to show up at stuff like potlucks, hospital picnics and the company Christmas party. 

Bucky sighed. “So, with that in mind, is it really wise to try to set me up with the ex of a guy who could break me in half?”

“He’s over her. She’s _definitely_ over him.”

“Just seems weird.”

“At least talk to her. You two might hit it off.”

“What’s this thing you have for fixing me up? I feel like one of Tevye’s daughters in _Fiddler_.”

“Dunno. Just wanna see you find someone nice, I guess.”

“Shouldn’t you be finding yourself someone nice?”

“No such animal. I’m done with men,” she told him dismissively. “No offense.”

“None taken, Natashenka.”

Bucky, thankfully, hadn’t been the one who turned her against the rest of his gender, but their previous fling hadn’t panned out, either. They were too much alike, and neither of them needed the other enough to want things to develop any further than “friends with benefits.” The benefits began to complicate their friendship too much, and they went back to being just friends. If anything, their brief attempt at dating made her more direct with him and freer with her opinions… something he occasionally regretted.

“I’m going to give her your number.”

“What if she doesn’t want to call me first?”

“What, do you want hers instead?”

“Let me meet her first. Don’t make this weird. This has the potential to get weird.”

“It’ll only be weird if _you_ make it weird.” Natasha changed gears. “What are you wearing to the wedding?”

“Found a suit. Makes me almost look respectful.” She made an approving noise. “Even bought real shoes.”

“Impressive. “ Bear began to whine and jumped down from Bucky’s lap. He shook himself and padded over to the front door, scratching it.

“Bear wants out. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he offered.

“Sure. Let your dog be your excuse for not letting me grill you.”

“I don’t need any excuse for not wanting to be grilled. Seriously, though. Let me let my dog out, Nat.”

“You can carry your phone with you. Wimp.”

“G’night, Nat.”

“G’night, James.” She waited a beat. “I might still give her your number…”

“GOODNIGHT, Nat.”

He clicked out of the call and put Bear out back for a minute, waiting for him to find his favorite spot by Bucky’s red maple tree. He wandered around a bit, lifting his leg and sprinkling as he went. Bucky leaned over the rail of his deck and breathed in the cool evening air, then glanced over the fence toward Steve’s property. He saw the bluish flashing light shining out the window, telling Bucky he was still up, watching the promised movie with Libby. 

Bucky’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he made a sound of annoyance. “Now what?” he muttered as he waited for his dog to finish relieving himself. He fished it out and saw that Nat sent him another message.

_Maybe a picture will help you to make up your mind._

There were two attachments. Bucky swiped his thumb across the screen. His brows rose when he opened them.

“Well played, Natasha. Well played.”

*

Bucky finished watching the tattoo elimination and turned off all of his lights, locking everything up tight for the night. Bear sprawled across his portion of Bucky’s bed, seeming to grow to twice his size when he slept. Every time Bucky tried to roll over, he’d get a paw or a tail in his face; by three AM, he finally nudged the dog out of the room and closed his door. He heard Bear’s claws clicking over the linoleum as he found his favorite spot under Bucky’s dining room table to spread himself and conk out. Dog was so fickle…

The tentative play date with Steve and Libby never materialized. Steve had a change in plans and had to go out of town. He texted Bucky later that morning, wisely waiting until elevenish. He knew how Bucky liked to sleep in by now, and that waking him before noon on his day off was like releasing the Kracken. 

_Had to go to Brooklyn. One of my aunts is having a birthday. Libs and I will catch up with you when we get back. Find anything to wear?_

Bucky grinned as he texted him back. _Picked up something I don’t completely hate._

There was barely a pause before Steve replied, _Bet it looks nice on you._

Bucky couldn’t stop his slowly spreading grin or the flush that rose up in his cheeks. He paused for a moment. _I’ll be presentable, at least. Kinda. Can’t promise that I won’t pick my nose, though._

_Can’t take ya anywhere, Barnes._ That was accompanied by a row of smileys, some green with tongues sticking out, and a few with squinty-eyed grins.

Bucky had an remarkable week, and by “unremarkable,” he attended three traumas, a gran mal attack at a convenience store, and transported a meth addict that ran down the highway naked claiming that he was God. It was one of the more entertaining ambulance trips he could remember. The patient pretended that his pulse ox was a finger puppet and gave them a show all the way into the loading dock. He saw precious little of Steve, not much more than the peremptory wave when Bucky was coming home in the morning as Steve was leaving for work. Bucky liked to think that was a hint of regret, perhaps, that Steve wouldn’t mind lingering to chat with him for a while? Bucky allowed himself a little wishful thinking.

Libby made herself scarce, too, as she started after school art lessons and continued with Girl Scouts. Bucky missed her impromptu trips across his lawn to play with Bear or to retrieve her stray toys. By extension, he also saw less of her friends in their cul-de-sac, but she was still close with little Julie Power, even though the girls deemed her younger sister, Katie, too young to hang out. Sometimes he saw them out on their skates, but they were developing the habit of “loitering” that was so common amongst tween girls, reading magazines, painting each other’s nails in garish colors, and pretending to ignore the neighborhood boys that whizzed by on their bikes and razor scooters. They needn’t have worried, Bucky mused; at that point in his life, he was still pretty oblivious to girls, he was hooked on Galaga and had a whole case of Star Wars action figures; the case was shaped like Darth Vader’s head. He was one of the coolest kids on his block, thank you very much.

The weekend of the wedding rolled around, and Bucky conceded to a trim instead of a short haircut; his ponytail no longer reached his shoulders and didn’t look as much like a tumbleweed at the back of his neck after a much-needed deep conditioning. He took the suit to be ironed at the dry cleaners when it got slightly crushed in the garment bag, and it felt starched and crisp against his skin when he put it on. He spent a couple of days walking around in the shoes, wearing them outside on the gravel to scuff the bottoms and “break them in,” then hit them with a polishing cloth to shine them up. He scraped his face, shearing off the week’s worth of stubble – at that point, he had to call it a beard – and noticed it shaved a few years off of him. “Hope I don’t get carded,” he muttered to his reflection. He smoothed his tie and hair in the mirror one last time and wondered if Steve and Libby were ready yet.

He grabbed his gift that he had wrapped at the department store where Pete and Gwen registered and his keys, and he managed to wrangle Bear outside without the dog jumping up on him and undoing half of his efforts. Bucky stepped out into the late morning sunshine, and he heard Libby’s high-pitched tones across the driveway as he locked up.

“Mr. Barnes! You look fancy!” Bucky turned and grinned, but he was stunned into silence when he got a good look at Steve Rogers dressed for church.

He was used to seeing him in “business casual,” particularly ties and khakis, and once in a while he would add a blazer or a zippered cardigan to look less “stuffy.” But Steve stepped out of the house looking like a Burberry model. He was freshly shaven like Bucky and his hair also bore the evidence of a recent trim and was tamed with product, its still-damp waves making his normally fair blond locks look like dark honey. He chose an elegant charcoal gray suit, three perfectly tailored pieces that played up his narrow, taut waist and rock-solid shoulders. Perfectly shined Stacey Adams shod his feet, and he wore a boxy platinum watch on his left wrist.

Libby watched Bucky expectantly, and he didn’t disappoint her. “Who’s that knockout in blue?” Bucky asked Steve. “Whole room’s gonna be jealous of your date, Stevie.” It was hard to form the words. His mouth had gone dry.

“She can cut a rug, too. Don’t ask me how or why, since I have zero rhythm. Zip,” he told him. Steve’s smile was sheepish. Bucky approached his car, fumbling for his keys, even though they were in his hand, because damn, Steve looked amazing. Libby was blushing, glasses in place, teeth still tinsly, and dressed in a prim little dress with a lace overskirt, a skinny belt, and sandals with a modest heel. Bucky also noticed the pantyhose and knew her aunt Peggy had to be involved. Steve had to have blown a gasket… Bucky was impressed that he allowed her the barely-there pink lip gloss. Her hair was skinned back in a snug, neat French braid, emphasizing that the baby fat in her face was almost gone. Where had the _time_ gone?

It frightened him a little.

The hold Steve had on him, just standing there, frightened Bucky a little.

Steve cleared his throat. “That suit doesn’t hate you.”

“You don’t look too awful, yourself.”

“Jerk.” Steve’s lips twisted into a smirk. His blue eyes flitted over Bucky’s keys. “So, uh… no plus one? Are you picking anybody up?”

“Oh. Me? Uh… no. Not…. Really.” Steve raised his brows. “Uh… was just gonna mingle. And… Nat, y’know, my friend from the gym? She has a friend she wants me to talk to, and… talk. Yeah.” The words clogged his mouth and made his skin feel fizzy and hot, and Bucky _could not believe_ he just admitted he’d been fixed up. To single, sexy Steve. Open mouth, insert foot…

“Oh. Guess you wouldn’t wanna carpool, then,” Steve murmured, and Bucky heard a hint of disappointment in his tone. He would have kicked himself, hard shoes and all, but it wouldn’t have helped.

“That’s okay. Thanks. For, y’know… thinking of me. ‘Preciate it, Rogers. Libs, you look beautiful, kiddo. Don’t give your pop a heart attack.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she said quietly, maybe too quietly as she watched them, wheels turning in her head. Bucky dismissed it quickly as he climbed into his car. Steve waited for him to drive past his driveway before he backed out, and Libby gave him a wistful little wave from the passenger seat.

*

The ceremony was simple and beautiful with a slew of bridesmaids decked out in garish sapphire blue cocktail dresses that none of them ever planned to wear again. Gwen was a vision in a stunning, mermaid cut white gown, and skinny, puckish Peter Parker looked dashing in his well-cut tux, and if his eyes were a little wet as he said his vows, no one judged him. May Parker looked proud and pleased as punch from the front row, and one of Gwen’s friends from Empire State University, Lila Cheney, sang “Ave Maria” after the minister’s blessings, and her voice shivered over Bucky’s nerve endings from its sheer clarity and range. 

Beside him, Steve and Liberty watched the ceremony with different reactions; Steve looked nostalgic and a little sad, even though he laughed at the minister’s anecdotes with everyone else, while Libby fidgeted with boredom until Steve whispered to her to stop. He eventually reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of Lifesavers, and she beamed, plucking a red one from the top. The scent of cherry distracted Bucky.

He wondered how Steve would taste after eating one of the tart candies, his lips warm, soft and faintly sticky. Bucky flushed at the thought and swallowed roughly. When Steve glanced at him, he pretended to fix his tie and offered a sheepish smile.

“I kinda hate wearing monkey suits, too, Buck,” Steve murmured.

“It looks nice,” Bucky whispered back.

“You’re wearing a lot of cologne,” Libby remarked to Bucky. She wrinkled her nose, and Bucky playfully bumped her shoulder with his.

“Think any of the ladies here will like it?” he teased. She shrugged at first, then nodded, making Bucky grin. Steve huffed a laugh and the three of them behaved each other – for the most part – during the rest of the wedding, except for the occasional goofy face and game of rock, paper, scissors. Steve gradually slipped back into melancholy when they got to the “til death do us part” part, and he put aside a sketch he’d doodled on a tithing envelope with the little, stubby pencil in the slot.

Bucky felt wistful as he watched Steve. Of course he’d be feeling a little off-kilter, being divorced. Steve was a fantastic, protective and nurturing father. Raising a child without a partner had to be daunting, and maybe lonely. What had it been like for him, when she left? And how could anyone who loved Steve ever leave him?

The selfish side of Bucky wished he could reach over to him and tuck his hand inside his, squeeze those warm, thick fingers and feel them squeeze back. Having Libby sitting between them, and the assumption that Steve might think it… weird… quelled his impulse.

“It’s my pleasure to introduce to you, Mr. and Mrs. Peter Parker. You may now kiss the bride!” The organ crashed into the first bars of the exit march, and Peter dipped Gwen into a theatric kiss, and guests chuckled and took pictures with camera phones. Bucky grinned when he heard a toddler sitting behind them muttering, “When do we get cake?” as they filed out of the pews and walked out into the warm sunshine.

“Cake sounds pretty good to me,” Steve muttered.

“So does beer,” Bucky countered.

“Beer’s gross,” Libby told them both. 

Bucky cocked a brow. “And how would _you_ know, missy?”

“I tasted Grandpa’s once. It was _nasty._ It smelled like gasoline.” Libby stuck out her tongue and grimaced, making the best “yuck face” Bucky ever witnessed and shuddering her shoulders with emphasis.

“Nice to know I don’t have a hard drinker on my hands,” Steve pointed out. “Bucky, do you need a ri- oh. Right. Never mind.” He waved his own question away dismissively.

“I’ll see you guys at the reception hall.” He winked down at Libby. “Save me a dance, kiddo!” She giggled and shook her head. “Aw, c’mon!”

“You might step on her feet, Barnes, with those big clodhoppers of yours.”

“HEY!” Bucky was aghast (sort of). Yet he was flattered that Steve noticed _his big feet_. Steve’s lips twitched and Bucky imagined a hint of wickedness in those baby blues, as though he’d read his mind. _Get your mind out of the gutter, Barnes._

“See you there. C’mon, Lib.”

“Bye, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky went to his car, but he kept stealing looks over his shoulder at the wedding party lingering outside the chapel. The bridesmaids filed out with the groomsmen, taking their turns hugging the bride. Bucky noticed Vic, the burly OR nurse, sauntering down the steps and clapping Peter on the back and shaking his hand a little too hard. Bucky wondered how they found a tux big enough to fit him, guy was at least six and a half feet tall, but then he moved aside, and Bucky noticed the striking woman coming out behind him.

_Whoa. Mama._

Nat’s friend, Tory, the number cruncher. Tall, curvaceous, mocha-colored, and decked out in that short, sapphire cocktail dress that looked scandalous with her endless legs. Watching the bridesmaids mingle with the guests and family was like looking at a “Who Wore it Best?” feature in _People._ But she took the cake. Nat’s picture hadn’t done her justice, since it didn’t give him any clue how tall she was, easily five-eleven in her stocking feet from what he could tell now. He saw her searching the crowd, and she glanced his way, eyes flitting away from him at first, then catching him in the parking lot. She shielded her eyes from the sun for a moment, then waved at him. Bucky waved back, giving her a soft, welcoming smile. 

Steve and Libby beeped at him, startling him from his reverie. He waved back at them as Steve turned out of the lot. When he glanced back at the chapel, the vision in blue was hurrying across the street, tiny bouquet and all, moving quickly and gracefully on the absurdly high heels.

White. Her hair was snowy white and done in an elaborate upsweep, leaving her long, graceful neck and smooth shoulders bare. The closer she came, Bucky noticed that her eyes were a deep shade of cerulean, and that when she smiled, she had dimples. “Are you Natasha’s friend?” she called over to him. Bucky cleared his throat and peeked over his shoulder. Victor was watching them with a dubious look on his face. Bucky turned his attention back to her and held out his hand.

“One of them, I guess.” Her brows drew together. “I work with her. And I love to give her a hard time. James Barnes, but you had it right when you went with ‘Bucky.’”

“Cute. I go by Tory.”

“That’s pretty. Is it short for anything?”

“Interestingly enough, it’s kinda my middle name. Most people get ‘Victoria’ right, but no one can figure out ‘Ororo.’” Bucky nodded.

“It’s nice.”

“Thank you. Natasha texted me a picture of you.”

“I kinda figured as much. Likewise.”

“She also said to ask you about the beer pong incident.” Bucky grimaced. Ororo chuckled at his expression.

“Of _course_ she did.”

*

That was how he ended up driving Ororo Munroe (an underwriter, not an accountant, he learned, for an insurance company) to the reception, after she sent a brief text to Victor from the passenger seat. Bucky plugged his Bluetooth into his phone and logged onto his Spotify playlist, turning it to low volume while they chatted and entered the freeway.

“So. You and Vic,” he began.

“Not anymore,” she mused. “We’ve been over for a while. Wasn’t pretty.” Then she gave him a look. “You guys aren’t really tight buddies, are you? We aren’t gonna have a situation where I’m talking smack about one of your bros?”

“We’re not exactly ‘bros,’” Bucky emphasized, making quotey fingers above the steering wheel. “We talk once in a while.” He glanced at her, long legs and all. “Not about you up ‘til now.”

“We split over a year ago.”

“But you’re both in the wedding?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint Gwen, and I’d already bought the dress. Vic and I were the closest to the same height, so… there you have it. Bridesmaid and groomsmen, all wrapped up in a bow.” She rubbed her nape and sighed. “So. You’re a paramedic.”

“Yup.”

“That’s gotta keep you on your toes. Was that what you wanted to be when you were a kid?”

“I wanted to be Batman when I was a kid.” She chuckled, and he grinned back. “But, yeah. I saw an ambulance once and saw these guys getting out to help an old man who had a heart attack in the street when my mom and I were coming out of a Laundromat. I liked their big bag of instruments and oxygen tanks and the loud siren sound. It was exciting. I wanted to help people.”

“That’s nice,” she murmured. “Do you like it?”

“Most of the time. I still feel like I wake up every day with a purpose, and that I’ll make a difference to someone after I punch the clock.”

“It helps to have a purpose.” She made an approving noise at the next song that came on, an R&B song that Bucky vaguely remembered from a movie soundtrack. “My job’s useful, but whether or not I have a ‘purpose’ or make much of a difference is up in the air. I have the boss from hell.” 

Bucky winced a silent “ooh.” “One of those, huh?”

“Had to go on a business trip with her once. She kept showing me pictures and a video of her little yappy dog.” She said this with distaste, and Bucky deflated slightly.

“Don’t like dogs, huh?”

“Yappy ones,” she clarified. “A big, snuggly dog that’s just friendly and goofy that you can really pet and play with, I’m fine with.” 

Bucky’s smile rose a notch.

*

On the one hand, she was Victor Creed’s ex. That made him slightly paranoid when they made it to the reception, finally, and entered the elaborately decorated hall. There were fairy lights everywhere and panels of sheer chiffon trailing down from the ceiling. She excused herself for a moment to the ladies’, and Bucky sussed out the table arrangement, looking for a place card with his name on it.

Well. That was convenient. Somehow, his name ended up beside “Tory Munroe.” Whodathunkit? Bucky startled when he felt a cool pair of hands cover his eyes from behind.

“Guess who?” Nat purred.

“An evil demon woman who delights in the suffering of mortal men,” he offered. She removed her hands and slugged him, but Nat was grinning up at him. She was stunning in a deep green slip dress and little silver heels, with her hair scraped back in a chignon with long bangs. 

“So? How’s it going? Whaddya think? Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” he agreed grudgingly. “But still… Vic’s ex?”

“It’s no big deal. See? He’s with his girlfriend, anyway. It’s not like he can give you the stinkeye without pissing her off.” Natasha wrinkled her nose. “Raven seems nice on the surface, but she rubs me the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. At least that paved the way with him to get to know the hot underwriter. “Gotta hand it to you. She’s decent. And kinda fun.”

“Told you.”

“I’m still not telling her about the beer pong incident.”

“Wuss.” Her face split into a grin and she hurried forward to hug Tory as she approached; Bucky noticed how far she had to bend down to hug Nat properly with the disparity of their heights. “You made it!” she cheered.

“Wouldn’t miss it. My ride arrangement worked out pretty well,” she told her, motioning to Bucky. “Even if this guy drives like a maniac.”

“He’s an EMT,” Nat shrugged, “what did you expect?”

“Ahhhhh… got it. That explains everything.” She had a twinkle in her eye that Bucky was slowly getting used to, and that he wanted to inspire more often.

“Tory, wanna drink?” Bucky offered. “I was just about to grab a gin and tonic?”

“Make it two?” she asked.

“Lime?”

“Please.” She gave him a grateful smile. He sauntered off to the bar, weaving through the crowd, and Ororo put her hand on Nat’s shoulder conspiratorially, leaning down to murmur in her ear.

“You showed me his picture, and he’s cute, but… _whoof_!” she breathed, mock-fanning herself. “Natasha, where have you been hiding him?”

“He’s been hiding himself without my help. He kinda keeps to himself. But who knows? You guys might have fun.”

“Does he dance?” Ororo asked. Natasha nodded. “Okay. That’s a plus.”

“He has a dog. A big, slobbering dog. Is that a dealbreaker?”

Ororo shook her head, earrings swinging. “Nope. Not at all.” Then, “Evil ex?”

“No. Not really. No one’s tried to stab him yet.”

“Okay, now you’re selling him a little hard. Calm down, Nat,” Ororo deadpanned. “I might start thinking he’s the whole package, now, when you put it like that.”

Nat shrugged. “He _could_ be.” Ororo sighed.

He looked ridiculously handsome and fit, dressed to the nines in that suit, with that wicked cleft in his chin and those amazing eyes. He was beaming as he returned with their drinks, including a rum and diet Coke for Nat. Nat took it from him and ducked nimbly out of the conversation.

“There’s Clint. He looks lost. Catch you later, guys.”

The conversation went well. Ororo wasn’t a boxing or UFC fan like Bucky was, but she could be persuaded to watch the occasional baseball or basketball game from the bleachers. She liked vacationing in warm locales during winter, and she never once asked him if he ever thought about becoming a nurse (learn from this one, Alison Blaire, he thought bitterly). She traveled a lot with her work, going on most of her business trips with her account manager, the one with the malti-poo mixed dog from hell. She grew slightly closed off, just for a moment, when he asked if she had any kids, before he realized his mistake. Victor never mentioned anything about having any, so he could have saved himself the opportunity to kick himself. Then her smile returned to its full wattage when he asked about her accent. Her father was from Queens, and her mother was from Kenya. They moved on to easier topics, and he was so caught up in talking to her that he jerked in surprise at the gentle poke at his shoulder. 

“These fell out of your pocket at church,” Libby told him as she handed him his sunglasses. Bucky gave her a sheepish smile as he took them. Her light blue eyes flitted over Tory for a moment, and she looked at Bucky expectantly.

“What would I do without you, kiddo? Hey, Liberty, this is Tory. She works in insurance like your dad.” Tory raised her brows with interest.

“Really? What does your dad do, Liberty?”

“He sells health plans and flexible spending accounts,” Libby recited easily, pushing her glasses up on her nose, a familiar tell to Bucky that she was assessing Tory Munroe.

“Then your dad works hard and must be pretty sharp, young lady. I like your dress,” Tory offered, smiling kindly. Libby returned it, but she glanced around the room and found her dad back at their table a few yards away, and Bucky almost wanted to tell her to bring Steve over to his, since there were a couple of unmarked places set, but then he decided to let it go. If Steve wanted to sit with him… then he’d sit with him. 

Wouldn’t he.

“I’m gonna go with my dad. It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” 

“It was nice to meet you, too.” Libby darted off, her steps slightly off-balance on her short heels. _What was that about?_ Bucky wondered silently. If he didn’t know better, he would have called that look on her face before she hurried off… slightly hurt. Maybe even _betrayed_. “Seems bashful,” Tory mentioned.

“Sometimes.” But Bucky had gotten so used to Libby being such a chatterbox with him. They continued to chat over their drinks, and Bucky tried to push those confusing thoughts out of his mind.

*

The reception was decent. Much like Steve had during the service as Peter and Gwen recited their vows, Tory now looked wistful as the newlyweds took their first dance as man and wife, and she said she just had something in her eye when Peter danced with his Aunt May in lieu of his mother. Bucky and Tory found themselves out on the dance floor frequently, and she didn’t kick off her heels halfway through, something that strangely impressed him. 

Tory impressed him, period. She was funny, easy to talk to, and slightly flirty, even though at first glance, she was the kind of woman Bucky would normally consider “out of his league” if he had met her at random. Steve still lingered on his periphery, but almost every time he looked up and caught sight of him, Steve was mingling and making polite chatter with the other guests, or had his arm wrapped around his daughter’s shoulders as he introduced her around. He nursed a seltzer with lime for most of the night, toying with the straw while Libby enjoyed her Shirley Temple. Bucky felt slightly bereft that they weren’t seated by his elbow, cracking corny jokes and conspiring with him on a plan to sneak over and taste the wedding cake before it was cut. 

It would be bad form, struggling to hold up a conversation with his… well, his blind date for the night, and the man he’d been pining over for a handful of years. Bad form, indeed.

And to her credit, Ororo Victoria Munroe was worth his attention. It was worth seeing how it panned out. He put aside his misgivings, even though he found himself craving Steve’s deep laugh and a whiff of his spicy cologne from time to time.

 

Speeches. Cake. Wine. More dancing. More small talk, interspersed with bits of real talk. Bucky eventually caved and told her about the beer pong incident. She was gracious enough not to judge him (too much), and by the end of the night, her body language was loose and comfortable, and she was leaning in toward him as things wound down to a close. Natasha and Clint were ensconced at their table, tagging photos on Facebook from their phones and sneaking Bucky knowing looks.

Natasha’s text was as smug as her grin from across the room. _Told you she was nice._

Bucky caught her eye, shrugged and grinned, then made a “comme ci comme ça” motion with his hand just to put her off. Nat stuck out her tongue.

“We can head over there and hang out with them, if you want,” Tory offered.

“Uh-uh. She won’t admit it, but Nat’s been pulling Clint’s strings for a while now. We’ve got a pool going on when she’ll finally put him out of his misery. I’m giving them their space.” As if on cue, Clint reached out and rubbed Nat’s neck, and she leaned into it like a cat. “And there you have it.”

“Could just be a neck rub between friends,” Tory pointed out. But then Natasha scooched herself in her chair a little closer to Clint, and her body went slightly slack against him. “That could be the vodka talking.”

“Bruce might’ve won the pool… damn it!” Bucky snapped. Then, “Eh.”

“She’s mentioned him before,” Tory told him. “Still think she was holding back a little. That looks cozy.” Bucky chuckled when Natasha looped her leg over Clint’s lap, leaning back and letting Clint slip off her sandal and rub her foot.

“I owe Bruce twenty bucks.” He texted her a bunch of disparaging icons that made the redhead laugh outright, but she didn’t remove her foot from Clint’s lap.

The DJ played all of the obligatory line dances, and to Bucky’s delight, Libby got up for several of them, and he shook his head and chuckled when she tried to tug Steve from his seat for a couple, only succeeding with getting him to do the chicken dance. May Parker grabbed him before he could escape back to his seat when it was over, and he ended up in the conga line, too, and he eventually took his elderly neighbor for a slow dance that made a few people around them sigh. Bucky wondered if his own expression was as sappy as he feared…

A few of the younger women sauntered over to ask him for dances, too, but he politely declined, and Bucky read his lips from where he sat: _I’m really not much of a dancer, but go ahead and enjoy yourself. Thanks for asking._

Victor and his girlfriend occasionally glanced at Bucky and Tory from their table, but at one point, Victor smirked and merely shook his head. Tory ignored the other couple, occasionally feeling her stiffen as they danced when the two of them crossed her line of vision during each slow turn. She finally looked up at him.

“I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

“I’ll drive you home?” She nodded, and she went to the table to retrieve her tiny purse. Ororo made brief, perfunctory goodbyes to the bride and groom, to May, and to Bucky’s surprise, Steve and Libby. Bucky hovered just behind her when she stopped by their table. Tory approached Steve where he sat musing, watching the dancing couples and looking tired, maybe even melancholy. He looked up in surprise at the strikingly tall, exotic bridesmaid reaching out to shake his hand.

“Bucky said you’re in the same line of business I am,” she said. “I work for OptforWellth in the Underwriting unit. Ororo Munroe, but I go by Tory.”

“Wow. Are you at the Long Island office?”

“No. The hub in the city.” Bucky could also tell Steve was impressed by her height, too, when he stood to shake her hand. “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter earlier tonight.”

“We’re both worn out. An early morning, shopping, dancing, cake and too much soda will do that to a person.”

“I’m not getting any younger, myself. On any other night like this, I’d be half-asleep on the couch with Netflix and Cheetos.” Steve nodded knowingly.

“Real party animal.”

“What was your name again?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers. Broker for Shield Health and Wellness.” She made an approving sound.

“It was nice to meet you both.” She patted Libby’s shoulder gently, and Libby smiled but then stared down at her hands, where they were folded in her lap.

“Good night,” she muttered. Then, “G’night, Mr. Barnes.”

“G’night, kiddo.” 

Steve watched them drift out of the reception hall, Bucky walking with his hand splayed gently over her lower back, warming the thin, slick blue satin of her dress. Libby gave him her silent cue that she was just about done for the night, too, when she folded her arms against the table and laid her head down on them, releasing a gusty sigh. Steve leaned over and rubbed her back in comforting circles.

He could use a little comforting, himself.


	5. Mom, Dad, and Everything In-Between…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a single dad, Steve wears many hats and answers all the hard questions.
> 
> Including the ones about why he’s still _single._
> 
> Even when it’s _painful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Don’t be thrown by the curveball of the last chapter. I'm just following the prompt, where it states “Person A’s child tells Person A that they are in love with Person B, who is dating Person C.” That isn’t the end game of this fic, I promise. Libby will tell her dad in her own inimitable fashion to get his head out of his fanny.

“Libby. Baby. C’mon out. I need those sheets.”

“Mmmmnnnhhh…”

“C’mon, sweetie. It’s laundry day.” Steve already had the baskets loaded in the car with his own big comforter, pillows, blankets and the sofa and loveseat slipcovers. Libby rolled over and cocooned herself more deeply within her nest of blankets and her Hello Kitty comforter. “Up and at ‘em.”

“Tired,” she whined petulantly without opening her eyes. Steve smiled  
sympathetically. It was such a shame to wake her, when she was all cute and tousled, tucked in and warm, long blonde streamers flying everywhere across the pillows. When she was sleeping, Steve saw her as a too-small, red-faced infant whose hands were so tiny that she could wear his wedding ring as a bracelet.

*

 

Liberty Grace Rogers was supposed to be a Leo born on the cusp, but she was impatient and determined to do things her way, otherwise known as the time Steve drove Sharon to the hospital to make sure she wasn’t having Braxton-Hicks, only to have his wife whisked across the hall to the perioperative delivery suite for a cesarean when they discovered the umbilical cord wrapped around his daughter’s neck. Sharon’s hand tightened vise-like around his fingers when the alarms went off on the fetal monitor, and Steve felt his pulse rabbiting as the ultrasound technician shot a cold, runny pool of KY over his wife’s swollen belly, using the transducer paddle to render the frightening – heart-stopping – images of his little girl in distress.

“Right. I’m calling a code.” The technician hit the intercom to bring in the OB nurse, then turned to them with desperate eyes. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” And to Steve, “You’re going to have to step outside.”

“What?!?”

“We need to prep your wife. You can scrub in, too, but it’s going to have to be fast.” Not even a minute later, staff flooded the room with stethoscopes, prep kits, sterile gowns, syringes, IV poles – it was dizzying. Steve felt like he’d been punched.

“Sharon,” he said, not recognizing his own voice. “I want to stay with you… baby, it’s okay, they’ll help our little girl…”

“I know,” she told him, voice full of panic and gravel. “Baby, it’s okay,” she assured him, even as the charge nurse led him from the room, but he managed to kiss his wife’s temple first, hating the sheen of tears in her eyes, and the piercing burn of his own. He saw more staff head into the room, and a technician in blue scrubs wheeling an enormous stainless steel instrument tray into the perioperative suite across the way, shooting him a sympathetic glance.

“Libby,” he whispered. “Please, God…”

“Mr. Rogers? I’m Dr. McCoy. I’ll be assisting Dr. Reyes,” said the guy in scrubs and a white lab coat that was built like a Mack truck. He had a shock of thick black hair and heavy sideburns, and very kind blue eyes. “I’m the pediatric surgeon on-call.”

“Pediatric… surgeon?” Steve’s heart dropped, and he felt sick. “You’re gonna operate on my daughter?”

“We don’t know that yet,” he told him. “I’m assisting with the delivery as a precaution.” He pulled Steve aside and told him about the risks of his daughter being premature and in distress, using words like “hemhorrhage” and “underdeveloped lungs” and other things that made Steve nod mechanically while he tried to hold it together.

His whole world was falling apart. The nurse came back out with a pair of scrubs in Steve’s size and a paper skullcap and shoe covers. “You can use the rest room over here in the exam room.” She no sooner said that then Sharon was wheeled out on the same exam gurney they’d used to scan her, already dressed in a delivery down and draped in a thin, unsubstantial blanket. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose was red, her cheeks gleaming and blotchy, and she reached for Steve. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. He was gripping her hands as though she would slip away from him if he let go.

“I won’t, baby, I won’t! Just give me a second to change, I’ll meet you in there… Sharon! SHARON!” They pulled the gurney away from him, but he snapped “Give me a damned second!” Steve leaned over and kissed his wife, swiping his thumb across her damp cheek. “I’ll be in there, sweetie, okay? I love you!”

“Steve!”

“I love you!”

“Come on and change. You’ll meet her in there, okay, Mr. Rogers? They have to get her ready.” The mobile fetal monitor beeped unevenly, its display terrifying Steve with its wavering pattern.

 _Please, God. Oh, please, God, don’t take my little girl. Don’t take either of my girls from me, I just can’t…_ He was sending up silent, furtive and desperate prayers as he shuffled into the scrubs and tying the mask on with shaking fingers. He shoved his feet into the shoe covers, and the OB nurse met him a moment later, also scrubbed down to circulate in the operative suite.

“Looking good. Come into this anteroom to scrub, okay?” She led him into a locked room, badging them in, and she showed him a long, trough-like steel sink with foot pedals that turned on the water and worked the soap dispensers. “Wash. Use the clear soap, dry your hands  
and put on a pair of those blue gloves. You’ll need the extra large ones.” Because of course he would. Steve went through the motions to the letter, quickly, and she shoved a cone mask at him. “Okay. Come in and stand off to the side, away from the sterile zones. When they have her ready, you can stand up by Sharon’s head and keep her company, okay? They just have to get her draped.” Steve nodded, mumbling a shaky “Okay” as she opened the interior door. The lights were inside the suite were stark, almost blinding while the scrub techs opened their instrument sets and gowned up. One of the other circulating nurses helped Dr. Reyes tie up and put on her goggles.

When they finally let him in, Sharon was almost invisible under acres of blue drape, and her long blonde hair was hastily covered with a powder blue shower cap. Her stomach rose dome-like from the center of the drape, and the tech was wiping it down with sterile towelettes to clean off the KY, then washing it down with iodine solution, the excess drops staining the floor a sickly mustard yellow. “Avoid the taped off areas, all the metal trays, and anything covered with a blue drape. Sharon, here’s Steve, okay, sweetheart?”

“Hey, baby. I’m here,” he assured her in as calm a voice as he could manage, but his eyes were still wet. Sharon’s were wide with uncertainty.

“I want a local,” she told him.

“She wants a local!” Steve called out, reaching down to stroke his wife’s cheek. He kissed her through the little mask, knowing that she shared the same thought that he did, that if anything happened, she didn’t want to be put under and miss one moment of their daughter’s birth…

“That’s fine, Sharon, but I’m giving you a little cocktail right now, just a little something to help you relax, then we’ll give you the local block. We’re gonna get your baby girl out, safe and sound, okay?”

Everything after that was a blur. Steve stroked Sharon’s hair through the cap, murmuring encouragement to her as the doctor’s worked. “Nice, neat incision,” Dr. Reyes assured the room, and Steve’s knees wanted to buckle, but he held it together.

“What’s happening?” Sharon demanded. “Steve, can you see?”

“Sharon, they opened you.”

“Oh, my God…!” Her face paled.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “You’re doing fantastic, baby. We’re gonna get to see her in a few minutes, it’s okay…”

“Good job, Dad,” Dr. Reyes told him as she worked. “That’s what we like to hear. You’re a good coach.”

“Thanks.” His voice sounded so small. “I hope she has your mouth, and your nose, baby. I hope she smiles just like you.”

“Feels so weird,” Sharon told him. “I feel tugging… ugh…”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She gave him a watery smile.

“There’s the placenta… okay, young lady, time to cooperate.” Steve heard a sudden rush of liquid, and more tugging sounds that he didn’t want to contemplate. “Gonna be some pressure… here we go… all right, there she is!”

“There she is,” Dr. McCoy echoed. “Let’s get a look at this little troublemaker… she’s telling us hello…” Steve heard them suctioning out her mouth, and he heard the tiniest, shrillest little squall.

“That’s our little girl,” he rasped.

“Libby,” Sharon added breathlessly. Steve bent down and slipped his mask up to free his mouth and kissed Sharon ardently, gratefully, and he felt so spent and exhilarated.

“She’s beautiful.” He heard another little cry, this time a bit more labored, and that sent his blood pressure soaring again. “Dad, come and say hello to her for a moment.” They wrapped her in a sterile towel and began to blot her down, and Steve stared down reverently at the tiny girl, hair sticky, eyes puffy and squinched shut.

“Hey, sweetheart. How’s Daddy’s girl? Is this gonna be a thing now? You scaring the crap out of me? I love you,” he whispered hoarsely. He was crying freely. “I love you so much, Liberty.”

“Let me see her,” Sharon croaked, and Steve came over for a moment, cradling her against his chest. Sharon sobbed out a laugh.

“She has your nose,” she told him.

“That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s okay. Big goof. She’s so cute. Hi, Libby…” Sharon pressed a kiss to her tiny cheek, and the baby began rooting at the slight contact, but the RN cut things short.

“We need to assess her and hook her up to a few monitors, guys. Steve, you can hang out with Sharon, okay?”

They were wrapped in the glowing relief of their daughter’s safe birth until Dr. McCoy suddenly barked, “Her pressure’s dropping!”

“What!?” Sharon yelped. “What? What did they just say, Stevie?”

“What’s happening?” Steve asked frantically. “What’s happening to her? She’s fine, right?” Libby had the tiniest blood pressure cuff he'd ever seen taped around her ankle, and the nurse was already holding her foot still to push an IV. Steve almost fainted at the sight of the needle plunging into her heel.

“We just need to regulate her blood pressure… “ Dr. McCoy worked on Libby while Dr. Reyes resumed her work, closing Sharon’s sutures.

“We’re going to take you both to Recovery,” Dr. Reyes informed them both. “We need to stabilize your daughter. Steve, I know this is difficult, but you’re going to have to sit this one out.”

“No!” Steve huffed. “Please… I can stay out of the way-“

“You can do that best in Recovery with Sharon, okay?”

 

Time slowed to a turtle’s crawl in the benign-looking yet oppressive recovery room. Steve stared around at the claustrophobically small room, at the striped wallpaper and the innocuous, Victorian-style watercolor print of a women in period dress walking down a beach with a little girl that had yellow ribbons in her hair. Sharon’s blood pressure monitors hissed and beeped in stark contrast with the low buzz of the television. Neither of them were paying attention to the marathon of Cupcake Wars episodes or infomercials.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Sharon murmured. “I don’t know what I did wrong, Steve.”

“Baby, no. No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I had to have… she came too early, that doesn’t happen unless I did something wrong with her, Steve!” She shook her head against his reassurances, trying to swat away his hands when he tried to gently rub her neck.

“Sharon, don’t say that… we didn’t know this was gonna happen. She just wanted out a little early. Kids are stubborn,” he told her, grasping at straws.

“Don’t be smart. Don’t be a smart ass about this,” Sharon snarled. She jerked away from him and turned her face toward the window, even though the shades were drawn. “We could lose her, and you’re going to be smart…”

“Don’t… please don’t. Don’t say that. _Never_ say that.” His voice was hard. She might as well have stabbed him in the heart.b“Don’t say that about Libby. Tell me I’m an asshole if you want… I don’t care, I know we’re both upset, but… you can’t say that about Liberty.” Hope was all he had. His prayers and his pounding heart and one brief cuddle with his delicate little girl were all he had.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“She’s here,” Steve told her, and this time, when he stroked her hair, smoothing it back from her eyes, she leaned into it and closed her eyes, sighing. “She’s beautiful. I love her so much. Thank you for giving me such a beautiful little girl, Sharon. Thank you so much. I love you. Okay? She’ll pull through. She’s hardheaded, I can tell that already… gets it from her old man.” She made a sound like a laugh, and Steve lowered one of the rails of her gurney so he could rest his head against her shoulder, wrapping one brawny arm around her to ground himself. He breathed in Sharon’s scent and shared his warmth and strength. He didn’t know that the tendrils of doubt had already begun to snake their way into her heart…

 

The next two months found them practically living in the NICU, wearing isolation gowns over their clothes, reaching into Libby’s isolette to stroke her tiny fingers and her little red cheeks. The room was so dark most of the time that on those rare moments when Steve went home to shower or to fetch the mail or a change of clothes, the light of day was stark and painful. Sharon listened to her tiny iPod with earbuds plugged in to drown out the monotonous crank of the breast pump and the constant beeps of the monitors. They were on a first-name basis with every nurse, respiratory technician, CNA and hospitalist on every shift. Steve brought in protein bars and prepackaged salads for the two of them to eat in the tiny break room whenever they spelled each other, and they put in endless miles on the hard wooden rocking chair. Adorable, elderly volunteers in red sweaters brought them cute little handknitted hats for Libby that seemed to swallow up her tiny face, and Steve uploaded as many shots as he could to his MySpace feed, with captions like _Okay, she didn’t get her daddy’s big head. Yet._ They chronicled her earliest days in those posts, journaling minute gains in weight, documenting how well she was weaning from O2, how she seemed to be focusing on the sounds of their voices and acting more alert… Steve and Sharon no longer gave a shit about the “normal infant milestones” in the What to Expect books while his daughter was on a feeding tube. The first one of his friends that so much as _looked_ at him as though they were gonna tell him that their kid rolled over, slept through the night or started onBsolids earlier than his was getting throat-punched.

They brought Liberty Grace Rogers home on an overcast Saturday morning; by the time he turned their car onto the freeway, the first raindrops splattered over his windshield. Sharon looked exhausted just staring into Libby’s sleeping face from the back passenger seat where the baby dozed in her car seat, swaddled in a small, red-white-and-blue receiving blanket that Peggy made for him. When they entered the house, it felt unnaturally quiet after having such a constant tide of staff in and out of their space, so many monitors sounding every hour. Steve took the baby with him to the couch for a while, even when Sharon asked if he wanted to lay her down for a nap. He turned on ESPN at low volume, glad to finally have access to decent cable channels and his own furniture. His selfie with Liberty gathered couple hundred “likes” and dozens of comments within minutes. Steve drank in his daughter’s scent of baby lotion and a hint of sweat from being generously swaddled, comforted by her funny little sighs and whickering breaths as she slept.

His reverie didn’t last long. She was squalling a half an hour later to be fed. And so the circus began…

*

FMLA paperwork. Extending his extended leave. Signing his baby onto his health insurance. Extending Sharon’s leave for having a c-section. Follow-up visits with the pediatrician, with Dr. McCoy, and with the pediatric cardiologist. Checking in with work and emailing his clients to reschedule meetings and signings. Opening an avalanche of utility and hospital bills. It was neverending. Sharon began to live in her pajamas and both of them had raccoon-eyes from lack of sleep. Steve became the gatekeeper for all of their visitors, scarce few at first and appallingly brief.

Sharon adapted to the routine of endless feedings, endless diapers, burpings, burp-ups, blow-outs, laundry and walking the floor in the middle of the night like a pro, but her eyes, sometimes, were hollow. She began to ignore Steve’s jokes. When she finished a feeding, she would hand Libby to her husband with a brusque “Here” before wandering back into their room.

“Share? Baby? You okay?”

“M’fine.”

She wasn’t.

When Sharon went back to work, she took the night shift to minimize the need for a babysitter, at first. Libby was so frail, termed “high needs” by her pede, and she caught infections like fireflies in a jar. Sharon and Steve took turns taking days, and the occasional week, off from work to manage her care. White Walgreens bottles lined the bathroom vanity with Libby’s name and birthday stamped on them. Steve became a pro with the nebulizer, entertaining his little girl with goofy faces and imitating Darth Vader while she had the mask over her face. Libby developed an appreciation for Law and Order reruns and TV Land chestnuts, their black and white images sending a bluish, flickering glow across the room in the dark.

“Someone wants Daddy,” Sharon announced when she needed a minute. Or a shower. Or an hour. Or three. Steve told himself that his daughter wasn’t looking _confused_ every time her mother relinquished her, surely… but there were moments where he felt uncertain.

And afraid.

*

Sharon sat at her desk one night, checking her emails and Facebook feed. Steve sat in the kitchen a few yards away, dancing Liberty on his lap. At seven months, she was still small for her age, but she had smiles, cooing, and blowing raspberries down pat, as well as the unerring capacity to fake her father out during changes, “finishing business” moments after he pulled off the soiled diaper. Steve’s conversational skills devolved to a strange medley of monkey noises, croons, and “who’s Daddy’s girl? _You’re_ Daddy’s girl. Yes, you are. Yesyouarrrre…”

The computer mouse flew across the floor, skittering across the tile when Sharon backhanded it off the desk. “JESUS fucking Christ,” she snapped. “Just… _enough._ I can’t. I can’t listen to that.”

“Can’t… listen to what?”

“ _That._ That… whatever that drivel is that you’ve been spewing for the past hour.”

“We just sat down. What the hell, Sharon?” Steve looked incredulous. Libby’s smile faltered, and her little arms wiggled and worked themselves in tandem with her feet. Steve bounced her on his lap, jiggling his foot and facing down his wife. “You’ve been weird, lately.”

“You’ve been _annoying_ lately. Just… can’t the two of you go in the other room? I came in here for _peace._ ” Steve’s face burned.

“Sorry. My idea of peace is spending time with our little girl and hearing her laugh.”

“Goodie for you.” Steve stared at her for a long, tense moment.

“Fuck you.” Steve gathered Libby against his shoulder and walked out  
of the kitchen. “Get over yourself.” He heard Sharon huff and grumble something unpleasant under her breath. He marched upstairs and headed to Libby’s nursery. Steve set the baby in her crib for a moment, and she babbled in protest, hiccupping and kicking, but Steve went to the closet and pulled out her one-piece winter suit with a little black Scottie dog embroidered on the collar. He lowered the crib bar and began to dress her in it. Sharon’s footsteps thudded upstairs, but he was too pissed off to care.

“Where are you taking her?” she demanded.

“Out of the house. Why do you care? You’ll have your precious peace and quiet.”

“Steve… calm down. I just wanted to check my messages…”

“We weren’t stopping you,” he grumbled, shrugging. “Do whatever you want. Take a nap. Maybe you’ll wake up in a better mood.”

“So I have to take a nap…” she muttered, fuming. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Steve!” His blue eyes wrenched themselves away from Libby, who was staring down at his large, thick fingers as they did up the snaps.

“Fine! Do what you want! Just… stop this. Whatever this is. This thing where you don’t want to talk to me, and you act like Libby’s getting on your nerves, and you act like everything’s fine whenever I ask if you need anything else, when ‘I’m fine, Steve’ means ‘Go fuck yourself, motherfucker.’” Steve shrugged emphatically, giving his best aw-gee-shucks expression. “But you’re _fine._ ”

Sharon gave him a long stare, folding her arms where she leaned against the door frame. “This is what we’re doing now?”

“I’m not doing anything except taking my daughter out.” Steve brushed past Sharon with Libby, and she jerked back out of the doorway, then pounded down the stairs after him.

“Let me give her a kiss,” she told him sharply.

“You sure? She isn’t bothering you?” he asked pointedly. Sharon glared at him, but Steve held Libby out from him slightly, and Libby giggled when her mother leaned in and kissed her sweet cheek.

She didn’t say anything when he walked out of the house. When Steve came home, the house was dark, and he found Sharon still awake, staring with little interest at the TV screen. She scrolled through the channel menu while John Cusack stood holding a boom box over his head in the preview window, serenading Ione Skye with Peter Gabriel, which seemed harmless enough, but Steve still didn’t relish the talk that loomed before him. He dragged out the process of putting Libby to bed, gently easing her out of the snowsuit so he wouldn’t wake her. She flinched slightly when he set her in the crib, but she smacked her lips and drifted off to sleep. Steve flicked on her night light, turned on the baby monitor, and crept out of the nursery.

He headed downstairs but didn’t join Sharon on the couch. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Did it help?” he asked futilely. “Did having some quiet help? You’ve gotta help me out, Sharon.” His voice was quiet but gruff. “You’ve been different for a while.”

“Different,” she repeated hollowly. “Okay.”

“Yes. You have. You’re hard to read.”

“So, I’ve been a bitch.”

Steve bit his tongue. It might have been the wrong tack to take.

“Okay.” She threw up her hands, and her eyes were flashing, her jaw set. “I’m just… I’ve got nothing, Steve. I don’t have the answers. I just… I love her, but I didn’t sign on for this.”

Steve’s stomach curled itself into a hard, leaden ball. “What didn’t you sign on for?”

Sharon steeled herself and took a sharp breath, then expelled it. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

*

They might as well have sold dinner theater tickets for the show in their kitchen every night. They bobbed and wove, trying to avoid each other’s eyes and stay out of the other’s space. They argued. They shouted, then gave each other chiding looks when Libby screeched in protest. There were silent treatments and crying jags and tearful arguments and broken dishes. There were accusations and blow-ups over Sharon checking her phone texts too furtively, and too late at night. When Sharon weaned Libby, Steve took over the lion’s share of Libby’s meals and bottles. When Sharon offered to take Libby at all, Steve grew resentful.

Steve began taking Libby to play dates alone. As Libby gained strength and improved her immunity, she became a regular at the gym’s day care so Steve could have a bit of time to himself for self-care without Sharon griping that he was “palming her off” on her. It rankled. The hard little ball of anger in his gut curled, rolled and grew. He felt helpless and frustrated.

Sharon sat through two sessions with him when he hired an MFT, and the appointments were both tearful and hostile. Steve winced when Sharon replied that she didn’t know if she loved him anymore.

Something inside him died. They sat on opposite ends of the uncomfortable white wicker couch in the ridiculously small office with its potted ficus and loudly ticking clock while what they had between them disintegrated.

*

“I can’t do this alone.”

He was getting ready for work that morning, necktie already knotted, hair combed, a faint cloud of his aftershave remaining in the bathroom. “I can’t do this without you, Sharon.” She rolled over in bed and leaned up on her elbows, squinting from interrupted sleep.

“Do you really feel like you’re doing this without me, Steve?” She made a broad gesture to their bedroom. To the framed photos of Libby, including the collage frame holding snapshots of her from the hospital mingled with pictures taken on happier occasions; Steve wanted to capture every moment, even the ones that found him afraid to hope. To the mountain of tiny clothing in the wash baskets on the other side of the room. To Libby’s play yard in the corner, where Steve kept her the night before while he did his calisthenics. “Is that what you think?” Her voice had a challenging edge, and he sighed roughly.

“No… Sharon, that’s not what I meant…”

“Yes, it is.” She got up and flung off the covers, then stalked into the bathroom.

“Sharon!” She slammed the door behind her and flicked on the fan to drown him out. “Shit,” he muttered. That went well…

He checked the clock. He needed to be on the road in a few minutes. Libby was still in her crib, dozing, thankfully unfazed by the slam, but Steve needed Sharon to hear him. He needed them to be on the same page.

“I wanna work this out,” Steve told her through the door. “I know you love her. Even when you’re not very happy with _me_.” He heard the shower crank itself on, then heard the angry slide of curtain rings whizzing across the brass rod. “Damn it,” he hissed. He paced the room as he waited for her to come out. Three long minutes found him cramming his car keys into his pocket and yanking his phone off the charger cable, grabbing his laptop case and hovering by the bedroom door.

He knocked on the door. “Please come out. I just need a minute.”

The shower shut off with a thunk. The curtain rings _chinga-da-dinga-da-dinged_ back across the rod and he heard the whuffle of a large bath sheet being whipped around Sharon’s dripping body before she yanked open the door.

“What?” she asked.

“What,” Steve repeated. “Wow. That’s all you’re gonna give me. Like… I’m not even worth your time…” His eyes were full of so much hurt. His nostrils flared and he clutched at the hair over his nape.

“Nothing I give you will be enough. You’re already doing this by yourself, remember?” she said dully. He shook his head.

“I don’t… I don’t want to.” His mouth felt so dry, and his attempt at swallowing some of the hurt felt thick and difficult. “I don’t want to. I love you. I don’t know what happened to us. Just tell me what I did wrong.”

“It’s not you. It’s… it’s not. It isn’t.”

Hope flickered in his breast.

She tolerated his goodbye kiss. She told him they would talk at dinner when he got home, before she started her shift.

*

He knew that something was wrong when Peggy met him at the door, bouncing Libby on her hip. The baby twisted herself from her aunt’s grasp, arms snaring Steve like octopus tentacles. Peggy gave him a wobbly smile.

“I made tea.”

“Where’s Sharon? Did she go to work early? She wasn’t due to start until nine-“

“She didn’t go to work. I’ve been here since noon, Steve.”

A strange wall of noise rose up in his head, buzzing and unpleasant, and he could hear his heart hammering in his chest so loudly… _so_ loudly, and bile washed over his tongue. Peggy’s expression was stoic, but her eyes were so full of sympathy that he had to look away.

“What did she say?” he husked as his cheeks grew hot, but his hands turned to ice.

“She said not to try to find her. She’ll contact you. And she left this.”

“Can you… can you just take… Lib… just for a minute,” Steve pleaded. “I just need a minute.”

Peggy still held the letter in her grip, bouncing Liberty on her hip as he climbed the stairs. The only sounds in the house were Peggy’s gentle coos and Libby’s babble downstairs, and the ticking of the clock.

*

“Daddy, just five more minutes,” Libby complained.

“I’ve already got everything packed in the car. If you hop in the shower now like a trooper, we’ll get donuts,” Steve cajoled. “But no matter what, I need that bedding. It’s gonna walk off the bed and jump into the car by itself.” Steve missed “The Big Trip” to the Laundromat the other week because of the wedding, and it was time to get caught up. Libby whined like a kicked puppy and rolled herself upright, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Steve leaned over and rubbed her back, and she slumped over, running in “really not awake yet” stand-by mode.

“Hop in the shower real quick,” he nagged. “We’ll get back in time to watch that episode of ‘Worst Chefs.’”

She was still pouting, and she stomped all the way to the bathroom, but hey, she was up. Steve chuckled and stripped the bed, folding everything up and throwing it into this rolling hamper. He carried it  
downstairs and lugged it into the car.

Steve was just closing up his trunk when he saw Bucky’s car pull up. He smiled at the familiar sight and gave him a brief wave. He’d seen precious little of him lately, and it would be nice just to get caught up for a minute. The engine cut off, and Steve waited for him to step out. “Hey, Buck, what’s going… on?”

Bucky grinned at him sheepishly, and Steve… Steve just instantly _knew_.

He wasn’t wearing his work clothes and boots. His hair wasn’t combed back into its customary neat ponytail. Bucky was wearing skinny jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he looked _thoroughly_ rumpled. There were faint bags under his eyes, but they were gleaming. He looked flushed and relaxed and far too pleased with himself, because of _course_ he would. Steve knew a man who just rolled out of bed when he saw one, particularly _someone else’s_.

“Um. Hey. Buck.”

“Mornin’, Stevie.” Bucky stood, idly spinning his key ring around his index finger, and his smile widened a little. “Laundry day?”

“Might as well get it over with. I like the large capacity dryers at the Laundromat better. Saves me a little electricity when I do the linens.” Steve cleared his throat, and his mouth felt dry. “Didn’t hafta work last night, huh?”

“NnnnnnOPE.” He had been leaning against his car hood as he spoke to his neighbor, but he launched himself up and trotted to his front door. “I’m gonna freshen up, and maybe climb on back into bed for a while. Had a long week,” he hedged. The implication that he had a _long night_ hung between them. As he went to unlock his door, he paused. “Got any plans with the Libster?”

“Errands. Donuts,” Steve said simply. Hollowly.

“That last part sounded pretty good.”

“They taste best on Saturday morning.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah. They kinda do. You two have fun.”

“If… if I don’t see you again later, then you, too.” Bucky nodded to him and went inside, leaving Steve flustered and rubbing his nape.

Well.

That explained that. Clearly Nat’s hookup worked out.

Steve wanted to resent the tiny redhead. He truly did. Yet, when he looked at it from a different angle, and he was really _honest_ with himself, Steve simply wished _he_ had been the one to leave Bucky loose, glowing and happy first thing in the morning.

*

Libby sat on one of the hard, uncomfortable plastic chairs at the Fluff and Fold, playing some maze running game on Steve’s smartphone while he worked a battered crossword page from the copy of the Daily Bugle that someone had left behind. She swung one leg idly in time with the rolling thuds of the dryer that he’d just loaded with the big comforters; he tried to ignore it instead of telling her to stop. Liberty peered into the Dunkin’ Donuts box and plucked out another powdered sugar donut hole and popped it into her mouth, wiping the dust off on the back of her hand.

“You’ve got some. Right there,” Steve told her, swiping at the smudge of sugar at the corner of her mouth. She flinched away from it reflexively, and Steve dimly remembered washing the lion’s share of bibs when she was starting on solids. Nothing got pureed carrots out of terry cloth. _Nothing._

“Daaaad…”

“Don’t walk around with a faceful of shmutz,” he told her absently, using his mother’s favorite word. He stole a chocolate honeydew donut hole from the box and washed it down with a chug of coffee. “City in Peru,” he quizzed. “Four letters.”

“Lima,” Libby told him smugly. Yup. It fit. Steve scribbled it in the boxes. “Hm. Grape, in Spanish. Three letters.”

“Uva,” she told him. “That’s what my friend America calls them.” Steve stifled a laugh. Of course his daughter would have a friend named America.

“You’re on fire today, kiddo.”

They finished the slipcovers, pulling them from the washer, and they weighed a ton wet. Libby loaded the quarters into the slot and struggled for a moment with the stiff metal tray as she shoved it in. Libby was a pro at laundry. Peggy told him it was good practice for when she went off to college. The mental images that inspired gave him another gray hair. He wasn’t ready. Not by far.

They finished the wash and hauled it back to the car, loading it into the trunk. “Okay. Pharmacy next. Then Costco.”

“I hope they have beef jerky,” Libby mentioned hopefully.

“You probably shouldn’t be eating it with your braces,” Steve pointed out.

“I’ll take small bites!” she reasoned. Steve sighed as he pulled out of the lot. They loved Saturdays at the warehouse store so they could taste all of the enticing samples. When they got to the pharmacy, there was already a short line at the pick-up counter. Libby continued her game on his phone while he checked his wallet, making sure he had his ID and his copy of Libby’s insurance card. The school year had barely started, and there were already Halloween decorations and costumes on display next to the small appliance aisle.

Steve finally had his turn in line. “Rogers. Liberty.”

“Same insurance?”

“Yes.” The technician’s eyes scanned her computer screen, and he saw her squinting and reading down the list of refills.

“Okay,” she told him finally. “I’ll go get your order.”

She came out from the back with an armload of white boxes and bottles. “Inhaler. Advair. Iron pills. Albuterol for the nebulizer. Eczema cream. And Prevacid, forty milligrams.” That last one was for him. He didn’t need another bleeding ulcer, thank you very much. Steve catalogued it in his mental rolodex that he needed to set another appointment with his GP, and a visit to Libby’s pede. The copays on the meds cost a third of what he spent on the two of them for groceries in a week. In his next life, Steve wanted to own a pharmaceutical company.

“Have a nice day, sir.”

“You too.” He looped the shopping bag over his wrist and retrieved his daughter, where she was busily trying on Halloween masks. She was wearing latex werewolf hands and a homely looking clown mask. “Very stylish,” he assured her dryly.

“Grrrrr!”

“Grrrr. Okay. We’re good here. Let’s take those off. Time to eat samples and pick up a whole buttload of detergent.” She shucked the costume items and they hopped back into the car. She happily abused his ears with Sia and Lady Gaga, singing along slightly out of tune.

“Dad?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Do you date?”

“Uh…”

“Like, ask somebody out to dinner?”

“Well… sometimes.”

“I never see you do it,” she accused.

Because Steve didn’t have a life, he almost wanted to admit. “It’s on my list of stuff to do. Kind of. Just, kind of on the _bottom_.”

“Why?” she prodded.

“Well, I guess I haven’t found anyone lately who I want to have dinner with. But that’s okay. Sometimes, it takes time to meet someone nice that you have stuff in common with, sweetie.”

“Did you and Mommy have anything in common?”

He cleared his throat and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “Yeah. When we first went out, we had a lot of things in common, baby.”

“Did she leave because you didn’t have anything in common anymore?”

_Shit._

He was flummoxed, because what the hell could he tell her? How to begin to explain to his daughter that her mother just couldn’t handle the job anymore?

Steve’s therapist, when he hired one for individual sessions in the wake of Sharon cutting out on their couples therapy, explained to him that postpartum depression can last long after bringing the baby home. He also said that depressive episodes could create “kindling” that the depression could re-manifest itself again, in different ways. “She might not have felt confident in her ability to take care of your daughter. She might have felt that she was letting her down.” Steve would never understand why she just plain gave up.

“We might not have had enough in common,” he allowed. “I loved her very much, sweetheart.” He had to stress that for Liberty’s benefit, even though his heart still felt like pieces had been cut out of it. “And she loved you. I think… there was just something she had to do for herself. She was having a hard time. Mommy… Mommy was sad about some things. She needed to take time to herself to feel better.”

“You get sad sometimes,” Libby told him sagely. She picked at a spot of vinyl on the arm rest that was peeling slightly until Steve muttered for her to stop. “Do you ever need time to yourself?”

 _Oh, my God…_ “I’m fine. I’m just fine, baby. And you know what?”

“What?” The wheels were turning behind those big blue eyes, and he felt her tension, the undeniable need to be assured that he _wouldn’t desert her._

She was his _world._

“When I take any time to myself, I still think about you. I do. You’re my best girl. Bet you didn’t know that.”

“Bet I did.” She smirked and toyed with the end of her ponytail.

“So. Yeah. Back to that first question. I haven’t had anyone I wanted to ask to dinner, lately.”

They turned into the Costco lot and grabbed a cart. Steve flashed his member guard to the smiling elderly woman by the door and she waved them in. Steve was tempted by a mountainous display of running shoes and a light-up reindeer, even as he told himself that there was no reason to rush the holiday season _that_ much, Costco, for crying out loud. They perused the food aisles and feasted on the promised samples; Steve splurged on the Sierra Nevada mustards and the bratwurst that were on special.

Cereal. The big Kirkland bucket of detergent. Bottled water. Shampoo. Conditioner. A pack of socks for each of them. The Wreck-It Ralph DVD that he comparison-priced at Target the week before. A pack of pork chops that would last them at least three dinners if he divided them before putting them in the freezer. They power-shopped and he juggled an enormous slice of pizza with his wallet on the way out as he showed the clerk at the door his receipt for a neon-markered slash.

They came home, unpacked, made up the beds and watched Worst Chefs. Libby eventually escaped to her room and plugged into her iPod Shuffle and read one of her books with fairies on the cover. Steve took some of that time to himself that his daughter grilled him about to check his emails and Twitter feed.

Steve ducked his head into Libby’s room an hour later and stopped himself mid-sentence while asking her what she wanted for lunch. She was conked out on top of the covers, out like a light. His daughter had to be in the middle of another growth spurt. Stretched out like she was, her feet were getting closer to the end of the bed. Steve tiptoed back out and gently shut her door. He fixed himself a ham sandwich and relaxed in front of some ESPN, then went upstairs to fold some clean clothes and put them away.

He thumbed through hisMyspace and saw pictures from Peter and Gwen’s wedding. They made him smile; both of them looked radiant and exuberant. There were candid shots of the guests and wedding party at the reception, too. Amusingly, he caught a photo of himself and Libby doing the chicken dance, and Peter, jerk that he was, tagged him in it. “Thanks, pal,” he muttered, sighing.

He kept clicking through the gallery, and his hand froze when he saw the shot of Bucky and his date, both of them coolly beautiful and dressed to the nines. Tory was elegant with curves and legs for _days_. Steve found her attractive, certainly, but she wasn’t necessarily his type. He couldn’t imagine how a date between them would have gone if he’d taken Nat up on her original offer to fix them up.

Apparently, she was just Bucky’s type.

Steve puttered around the house and eventually headed back outside to cut his neglected grass. Bucky’s car was still parked in the driveway, telling him he hadn’t seen the light of day since he came home. He dimly remembered Bucky’s comment about all of their neighbors starting up their mowers as soon as his head hit the pillow after working a twelve. He hoped Buck wouldn’t hold it against him, but the crab grass was taking over.

Libby finally came wandering down the stairs and flopped onto the couch beside him, tucking one of the throw pillows against his lap and collapsing onto it. He tugged on her ear. “You were sawing logs.”

“What are we gonna eat?”

“Pizza?” She nodded against the pillow. He patted her and dialed the delivery number. The two of them watched his Pawn Stars episodes while they waited for it, then switched to the Wreck-It Ralph disc once it arrived.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Do you mostly go out with girls?”

He nearly choked on his pepperoni.

“Why?” he croaked as he took a sip of soda to compose himself.

“I dunno.” She tugged off a long string of cheese and dangled it into her mouth. “Just wondering, I guess.”

“Well…” That was another subject on his list of “wait and sees” that he knew would make it onto the table at some point.

“Do I mostly go out with girls?” he echoed back finally. “Kind of.” He toyed with a piece of pepperoni, tearing off the bits of stray cheese from the back of it. “Mostly.”

“So, does that mean that you like boys, too?”

He wavered. He felt his face heat up, heart pounding in his ears.

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Because he would never lie to her. Ever.

“Oh.” Her reply was cavalier, accompanied by a little shrug. She chugged a few gulps of her soda while Steve wrapped his head around what just happened.

His daughter just asked him his orientation, after a fashion. He just fessed up. And she was nonplussed and… fine with it.

“One of my friends has three daddies.”

And that pretty much explained it.

“What’s that like?”

“Her Daddy Phil makes good cheeseburgers. And Daddy Mike drove us on the field trip to the museum.”

Steve made a thoughtful sound and took another bite of pizza.

“So,” he began, “this whole question about if I like going out with boys sometimes… what made you think to ask?”

“Because of you and Mr. Barnes.”

This time he really did choke on his pizza.


	6. How Was This Even His Life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More bad set-ups. More awkward questions. More of these two goofballs realizing they might be missing out on a precious opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been the weekend from hell. Finally have a little spare time to write, and I’m completely BLOCKED. I’m having to fight my kids tooth and nail to use the PC now that I have internet access at home again, and once I finally sit my fat butt down in my chair, every plot bunny visiting my brain when I’m in the middle of anything else important goes hopping away into the brush. Stoopid bunnies…

Tory looked good in his shirts. She looked good in _everything_ , it went without saying, but Bucky was really beginning to enjoy the view of those long legs and the briefest glimpse of her satin panties peeking out from beneath the hem of his oversized gray tea printed with the hospital’s emblem. Her sandalwood-scented cologne lingered in its folds whenever Bucky added it to the laundry basket. He lingered in bed a while longer, stroking her masses of thick white hair. Her leg was trapped between his, her soft, warm breath fanning across his chest.

“I don’t wanna move,” she admitted. “But I’ve gotta get up to pee.” Bucky groaned, then grinned.

“Hate that. Just when you get comfy, that’s when it hits.”

“Back in a flash,” she promised as she leaned up and kissed him, making a sound of approval when he nipped her plump bottom lip.

“Take your time, babe. I’ve gotta get up, anyway. I picked up an extra shift tonight, and I have to run a few errands.” Ororo lingered in his bedroom doorway and pouted back at him.

“Awwwww. So no brunch?”

“Brunch. Brunch is fine. Just more brief,” he offered as he sat up in bed and fished around in the covers for the remote.

“I wish you’d said something,” she told him as she retreated to the bathroom.

“Sorry,” he called after her as he paged through the guide. And, there it was, the first in his daily quota of disappointing moments with Tory Munroe. 

He chided himself. That wasn’t fair. Tory was nice. She was fun. Low-maintenance. Independent. Smart. _Hot_. They were having fun, and neither of their expectations were that high going in, but…

Why did there always have to be a _but?_

Like, for instance, brunch. Bucky wasn’t by definition a “brunch” guy most of the time. It was rare, by token of the schedule that he worked. Bucky liked breakfast food at breakfast time if he was going to eat it at all. Donuts were the exception, since as he’d told Steve, you never needed an excuse to eat a donut. They were acceptable nourishment every hour of the day, because _donuts._ Tory worked a pretty typical eight-to-five day, or more like eight-to-seven depending on her clients’ needs and how far she had to commute. 

Tory was married to her job. That’s why she was successful, had a grown-up retirement portfolio and her car was paid off in two years. She talked about work _constantly_. Bucky didn’t talk shop often due to the nature of his job. Most of his dates didn’t want to hear about him having to jam a chest tube into an accident victim while they were still staring up at him wide-eyed, surrounded by shattered glass over the appetizer. By the time Bucky came home, he wanted to cuddle up with Bear and watch Ultimate Fighting, go to the gym, or just go to bed. He wanted to enjoy mundane things and leave his job at work where it belonged.

Tory’s job was her life. Bucky supposed she couldn’t help it. When she wasn’t talking about meetings she’d had, she talked about Vic. And that’s where Bucky was really at a loss, because Tory’s signature on the divorce papers was barely dry. She’d already had a few months to divide their assets neatly in half, but she was still gluing her heart back together in the process. 

Bucky knew he was a rebound. That didn’t leave a lot of room to play Prince Charming when she seemed to only be looking for Mister You’ll Do For Now.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of running water in the sink and Tory’s bare feet padding back down the hall. There she was, still tousled but smelling like his toothpaste. She slid back between his sheets and cuddled back up, and the two of them watched the beginnings of “Taken 2” as they continued to wake up.

“I was hoping we could meet up with Allison and Anna. You haven’t met them yet.” Bucky winced slightly, stroking her arm lightly.

“Maybe we could meet them over drinks instead…”

“Why?” Her blue eyes pinned him, and she arched one perfect brow. “Not up to meeting my friends today?”

“It’s not that I’m not up to it. I just hadn’t planned to spend a lot of time brunching today. It’ll look crummy if I have to skip out early.” And he didn’t feel like being “on display” if it was two of Tory’s single girlfriends – presumably – showing up without dates. Tory sighed, then shrugged against him.

“That’s fine,” she murmured. “I wanted us to spend a little time today, but you can do your thing if you want.”

And of course that made him feel like crap, but an out was an out.

Bucky reached for her, tugging her up against him by her shoulders until their bodies were flush. He caught the faint trace of annoyance flash across her features, but then she smirked. “I can still meet your friends,” he told her, kissing her to placate her.

“Or I can cancel on them for today, help you run a couple of errands, grab a quick bite with you before you come home to sleep, and we all go out for drinks on your next night off?” He pouted, brows drawing together. She smoothed out the little crease in his forehead and kissed it.

“No! You don’t have to cancel.”

“We don’t get that many mornings,” Tory reminded him. She leaned down and brushed soft, teasing little kisses over his lips, her hair tenting their faces. Bucky groaned at the feeling of his arousal twitching between them, seeking out her warmth again. “Brunch is brunch. Brunch will keep.”

“Sure will,” Bucky murmured against her lips before she opened for him. His arms tightened around her, and she clicked off the movie between kisses, letting the remote slide off the bed with a thunk. 

They came up for air a couple of hours later, and Ororo dashed off a quick apology text to her friends. They ended up in his kitchen for an impromptu omelet, fried potatoes and coffee in mismatched mugs, which technically counted as brunch, Bucky supposed. But at least brunch, in this case, didn’t involve him being scoped out by his girlfriend’s cohorts for an uncomfortable hour while he tried to make small talk and pretend he wasn’t waiting to hit the gym, walk his dog in the park and pick up his dry cleaning. 

Tory was efficient, whipping through helping him with his dishes, making his bed, and retrieving her clothes from the night before. She massaged some of his hair product through her damp waves and pulled it back into a simple, neat bun that looked too no-nonsense for the weekend. His tee shirt ended up back in the hamper; she didn’t have the annoying habit of some of his exes of wanting to run off with his clothes, and again, he felt guilty herding her into that category of a potential “ex” who he would have to retrieve his belongings from.

He liked her. He did. But when Bucky contemplated a future with Ororo Munroe, it was foggy.

*

“Daddy? Can America sleep over tomorrow?” Libby called down the stairs. “She just Facebook messaged me.”

“You’re supposed to be getting ready right now, Libs, not playing on my phone.” Twelve was too young for a smartphone in Steve’s opinion, but that didn’t stop his daughter from pouncing on his every time he left the screen unlocked.

“But can she?” Because that was the important question. Steve sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for company that he would have to clean up after and feed.

“That’s fine, if her parents say it’s okay. Work out a time for her folks to drop her off.”

“What if we go get her instead?”

“Let’s see what they say first, but young lady, GO. Get ready. We’re running late. You don’t even have your shoes on.” Libby scuttled off in her bare feet toward her room. Steve growled in annoyance as he went back to his frying pan of scrambled eggs. The plate of buttered toast was already on the table next to the pitcher of apple juice, and Steve had already made a hasty change when he noticed a stain on his light blue dress shirt that he’d just brought back from the cleaners. He already had it wrapped back up in the plastic and the pick-up slip tucked in his wallet to have them fix it, and his day was off to a rocky start. 

Libby appeared in the kitchen after two more bellows up the stairs. When Libby showed up with her hair combed into its pert ponytail and her bangs pinned up into a funny little flip/pouf thing, Steve suppressed a smile as he dished up her plate. She was discovering her own style, which he had to applaud.

“Got your homework?”

“My backpack’s by the door.” Then she slid him a light blue half-sheet of paper. “But I have this permission slip for you to sign…”

“I thought we had an agreement that you would hand me these before bed the night before, not when we’re trying to hurry out the door?”

“Here’s a pen, Dad.” Steve’s reply sounded vaguely like “Eeeeerrrrrgggghhhhh…” as he fumbled with the pen, scrubbing the tip against an open envelope left from one of his utility bills, trying to get the ink to flow. He scrawled Libby’s name, his signature, an abbreviated list of her food allergies, “asthma” where it asked for her medical conditions, her insurance policy number that he knew by heart, his emergency cell number, and her immunization date on the slip. Why couldn’t the school just have parents fill out one slip with all the information at the beginning of the year and then just change the destination every time they needed permission?

“Go. Put it in your backpack. Don’t lose it.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She grinned and hopped up, kissing his cheek placatingly – because she knew he was a sucker - as she went to put the slip away.

“Hurry up and eat, baby. I’ve got a meeting.”

“Want me to ask Mr. Barnes for a ride?”

“No. We don’t want to wake him.” Steve caught a glimpse of Bucky that morning when he got back from his morning jog, just as Bucky was turning off his ignition. He looked rough, dark circles around his eyes and posture slumping as he walked up his porch steps. 

“That stinks,” Libby muttered as she bit into her toast. “Why can’t Mr. Barnes work when it’s light out, instead? He’s always got to go to bed as soon as we see him.”

Steve huffed. “Yeah. I know, kiddo. That’s just his shift. It works best for him that way.”

“We hardly ever get to hang out with him anymore.”

“He’s busy, Libs.”

Steve tried and failed to ignore the second car parked in Bucky’s driveway more nights than not, lately. Jealousy burned in his chest when he saw her headlights beaming through the hedge separating their houses and heard the click of her high heels going up Bucky’s front walk and steps. Steve missed the random occasions when Bucky showed up at their house with a Red Box movie, or when he came over on Sunday nights to barbecue when it was warm out, bringing Bear over so Libby could play Frisbee with him. The dog was as bad as his owner, giving Steve big, soulful eyes in the hopes of leftovers. The dog knew he was a sucker, too, Steve mused, and he was a big, cuddly beast. It was easy and comfortable having Bucky share his space. Steve missed seeing that smile across from him at the dinner table, hearing his banter and bullshit at his elbow when they made short work of the dishes and cleaned up.

Steve kept himself busy, or more accurately, his admin kept him busy with meetings and the contents of his inbox. He closed a sale of a three-tier option health plan with dental and vision for a sneaker company, and he emailed the rates to the account manager with a copy of his welcome letter just before lunch, which he ate at his desk. He scarfed down his leftover chicken without even bothering to warm it up in the microwave, not wanting chicken fumes to waft through the office. He stared at the rest of the papers on his desk, some part of him longing to sweep all of it off into the garbage. But he barreled through it, and by three PM, he saw a message ping at him from his Outlook inbox.

LibbyRogers: _Hi, Daddy._

Steve’s lips twisted in amusement. _Hey, pumpkin._ He bent his neck to the side to crack it in an attempt to ease the tension headache already building from cradling his phone all day. If he wasn’t more mindful of his “habit body,” he’d be looking at another trip to the chiropractor.

LibbyRogers: _When are you coming home?_

Steve.Rogers: _The usual time, baby. Why?_

LibbyRogers: _Kitty took me to the library to work on my book report._

Steve.Rogers: _Good. Hope you’re working on it instead of playing games?_

LibbyRogers: _YES_

Steve.Rogers: _Good girl._

LibbyRogers: _I need a sack lunch for my field trip._

Steve.Rogers: _Okay, Lib._ That meant an impromptu Safeway trip, since his cupboards were looking a little bare. Steve actually preferred packing her a lunch, since Libby had so many food allergies that he couldn’t trust that whoever hosted the field trips would provide something that wouldn’t give her a reaction.

LibbyRogers: _Daddy?_

Steve.Rogers: _Yes, baby?_

LibbyRogers: _I love you._ She punctuated it with little heart and kissy emojis. Steve felt a rush of fuzzy prickles and couldn’t wipe the ridiculous smile from his face.

Steve.Rogers: _Love you too, Lib._

It made the struggle, scramble and hussle worthwhile. Liberty Rogers had her father wrapped snugly around her finger. Steve attacked the mess on his desk for the next hour, what he considered the “witching hour” when time went too slow for him to focus, but too fast for him to finish everything by quitting time. By the time he clocked out and washed out his coffee mug, he was knackered and had a stiff neck. Dimly he wished he had someone to work out the kinks, preferably someone with strong, warm hands.

But Bucky was taken.

 

*

“Steve! Steven! Don’t run off!” Steve and Libby paused as he opened the trunk to lift out the Safeway bags. Gwen Stacy – Parker, he corrected himself – ran across the street, flip-flop soles slapping the pavement as she approached. “I was hoping I would catch you. Hi, Libby!”

“Hi,” Libby murmured shyly, smiling. 

“I can’t believe how grown up you look,” Gwen gushed. “You’re almost as tall as I am!”

“She’s eating me out of house and home,” Steve teased. Libby gave him her patented _Please, just STOP_ look. Gwen chuckled.

“So, anyway… I was wondering if I could interest you in meeting a friend of mine.”

Steve winced. “Friend, huh?”

“She’s nice!”

They were _always_ “nice.”

“I’ve got a lot going on this weekend, Gwen, so, I don’t know-“

“Well, that’s fine. Leave next week open, then. I really think you two would click.”

“What does she do?”

“Interestingly, she’s a PI.” 

Steve made an impressed “hmmm” under his breath. Libby shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as though the grocery bag she held was the heaviest object in the world. Steve absently gave her his key ring, and she gratefully escaped up the front walk. Gwen folded her arms.

“Can I give you her number? Would you think about calling her?”

“I suck at dates.”

“It could just be coffee if you want. She’s pretty low-key.”

“Does she know I’m a dad?”

“I might have mentioned it.” Gwen’s smile widened a notch.

Steve exhaled a deep gust. “Don’t… just don’t promise her anything. I’ll give her a call. For coffee,” he emphasized.

“Carol likes coffee. _Loves_ coffee, as a matter of fact,” Gwen cajoled. She reached into her pocket and - _ta-da!_ \- pulled out a tiny folded slip of paper. She handed it to him smugly. “I might have also mentioned it to her that you might extend an invite to her on Friday night.” Steve’s cheeks flushed.

What was he suddenly feeling like he’d been played like a fiddle?

*

Tory finally managed to corner him for brunch. Bucky reintroduced himself to his iron and rummaged through his closet for something that didn’t have cargo pockets or Adidas logos on it. His previous plans to take Bear to the park took a temporary back seat to meeting her friends at the slightly overpriced café that almost always had a line around the corner every Saturday morning. Bucky whistled to himself as he steamed the wrinkles out of a halfway decent white oxford with faint blue stripes. He pressed a sharp pleat into his khakis and decided on a pair of docksiders, figuring he would pass muster. Bucky pondered if Tory would hesitate to drag him on one of these meet-the-girlfriend’s-girlfriends outings again if he just put on his gym shorts and his rattiest “Big Johnson” t-shirts leftover from college. 

He decided not to risk it.

He drove to Tory’s apartment, taking the freeway and leaving the windows down, not caring that the wind might unsettle his carefully gelled hair. He sang along with “Creep” by Radiohead at the top of his lungs. Music was another slight bone of contention between Bucky and Tory; she wasn’t crazy about the stuff he loved, admittedly a lot of old metal and nineties grunge. Sometimes they took her Jeep when they went out for the simple reason that she wanted control of the stereo. There were worse things, he supposed, then being locked in a car for an hour of Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits while he watched the trees whizz by from the passenger seat…

 

…like, when she _sang along._ Hoo, boy. Bucky could only pray that his expression didn’t broadcast the strange mixture of appalled horror and amusement he felt when she belted out the first few bars on one of their earliest dates. He chuckled to himself. Okay, so you can’t have everything… beauty, intelligence, business savvy, a sense of humor, and mad skills between the sheets would just have to be enough, wouldn’t it?

Bucky pulled up into the first empty space he could find on the street outside Ororo’s apartment building, sighing as he cut the engine. He wondered, vaguely, what Steve was doing today.

Bucky nodded to the receptionist at the front desk as he signed in on her log. He took the elevator to the third floor, still humming Radiohead and checking his phone messages one last time. He checked his reflection with a quick glance at the hallway window and decided he would do. Bucky rapped on Ororo’s door, and he heard some shuffling sounds and her music being turned off as he waited to be let in. He also heard her end of a conversation as she approached.

“… I know. I know. I gotta go. My man’s here. Yup. Just inbox me. I got the save-the-date in the mail.” She made kissy noises into the phone before ringing off. Bucky let out a low whistle as she opened the door. Her tiny aqua sundress left little to the imagination. Her long waves of hair hung down her back, held back from her face by her sunglasses perched on top of her head. 

“Now I feel like I’m underdressed. Look at you, mister,” she murmured as she took his hands and leaned in for a kiss, soft enough not to bruise her lipstick. 

“I can wait if you want to change. I could _help_ you-“

“No,” she snickered, kissing him again. “Onward. The girls are holding a table already.” Bucky sighed. Tory saw his pout and caressed his jaw. “Thanks for coming with me today, Bucky.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“I appreciate it.”

“You can’t appreciate it inside?” Bucky leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “Are you sure you don’t wanna go change?”

“GO!”

They canoodled and teased in the elevator, and Tory led him to her Jeep. “We could take my car,” he mentioned.

“No, we’ll take mine.”

Drat. That meant he was trapped at the table for God only knew how long. They climbed into the Jeep and Bucky noticed the slightly cloying vanilla air freshener insert plugged into her lighter. “I just had it detailed yesterday,” she told him. “And I had a tune-up and oil change. She’s running like a top.”

“Bet she loves being pampered.”

“Her daddy wants her back,” Tory said, and he heard the edge creep into her voice, telling him that her last chat with her ex hadn’t been shits and giggles.

“You two still have stuff to sort out?”

“Our attorneys are sorting it out,” she shrugged. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, and she sighed, bitter and resigned.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I promise.” She turned up the stereo a notch, urging Bucky into silence. She turned the Jeep onto the freeway, muttering obscenities at the woman ahead of them that didn’t signal. Bucky chafed at the tension inside the car, and he turned to watch the trees blur past, toying with his air vent to distract himself.

“Are you too warm?”

“No. No, I’m okay. Thanks.”

“Bucky… I’m sorry. It’s been one of those mornings.”

“Might help if I feed you?”

“It might.” She chuckled and glanced over at him, then squeezed his knee. “You look handsome, sir.”

“Oh, how you _do_ go on.” He leaned over and gave her shoulder a light kiss. 

“Don’t worry about my friends. They’re gonna love you.”

*

 

Famous. Last. Words.

Holy _shit_.

Because of _course_ Natasha’s last attempt at fixing him up would be sitting across from him, giving him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“So how do you two know each other again?” Tory inquired.

“Um…”

“We met a while back,” Alison informed her. “Through a friend.”

“Oh, right. Right.” Ororo stirred more creamer into her coffee. “Small world.”

“The smallest,” Alison said flatly. The strawberry blonde nurse was none too thrilled to see him again, either. Bucky wanted to sink into the floor. Or pull the fire alarm for the excuse to dash out the door and get lost in the crowd…

Ororo’s other friends were nice enough. Monet and Everett were a couple, saving him from being the only guy at the table. Anna Marie was a crack-up, with a flamboyant platinum streak in her auburn hair and a thick southern accent. Stephanie went by “Stevie” and it only reminded him sorely how much he wished he were having a casual breakfast with Steve in his own kitchen, splitting the newspaper and munching on English muffins and eggs. Her friend Jubilee was twenty but barely looked older than Libby, and she kept up a constant stream of conversation with her gum snapping and while scrolling through her phone.

“What was it you said you did again, Binky?”

“Bucky.”

“Right, Bucky. Right. You said you were a CNA, right?”

“Paramedic,” he corrected her, and his smile was pinched. 

“Riiiiiiggght. My bad.”

“And you’re a candystriper?”

“Nurse. I’m a _nurse._ ” They said “ohhhhhh” in unison. Bucky shook an accusing finger at her. 

“Riiiiiggght.”

“He’s such a kidder,” Ali told Tory. Tory nearly horked coffee out through her nose.

“So you two met at a wedding?” Monet cut in. 

“Yup. I was pulling bridesmaid duty,” Tory told her.

“Well, don’t put away your dancing shoes yet.” Monet grinned at Bucky. “She’s my maid of honor, too. Ev and I are getting married next year!”

“Congratulations,” he offered politely. 

“Thank you.” Everett dutifully kissed her cheek. She followed it with several more pecks that sickened the table at large.

“Y’all are so gross,” Anna Marie muttered as she slathered her bagel with cream cheese.

“I’m never gonna find anybody,” Jubilee groused. “Can’t you guys do that somewhere else?”

“We plan to,” Monet promised smugly.”

Jubilee wrinkled her nose. “Ew…”

“So Buckster, yer a paramedic?” Anna asked, mercifully. “Ya like it?”

“Love it.”

“It pay well?”

“Decent,” he allowed. “I’m thinking about getting certified for flight crew.” Anna made an approving noise. “Could always change my mind, though, and realize my lifelong dream of becoming a CNA.” Ali shot him a dirty look.

They made it through the usual small talk and coffee, tepid fruit salad and an unremarkable ham omelet. Bucky restrained himself from checking his phone, even though Tory checked hers several times. She glanced up at him and gave him an apologetic smile.

“My account manager. She’s a workaholic.”

“Ah.”

“We might cut this short.”

“That’s fine.” His smile was sympathetic, not approaching jubilant, because he _did_ promise her a nice brunch with her friends. But his shirt cuffs and collar were chafing him, and he longed to ease into his track pants and pack Bear into the car with his favorite Frisbee and enjoy the remaining sunshine.

Ali was in the middle of telling Tory about her next show, because she sang on the side when she wasn’t taking vitals and passing meds, when Jubilee suddenly perked up and elbowed Anna Marie.

“Check _him_ out. Beefcake at three o’clock.”

“Land sakes alive,” Anna murmured, mouth dropping. “Honey hush, that man’s _fine_.” Tory looked up, interrupting Ali’s description of her show’s venue, and she beamed, turning to Bucky.

“Isn’t that Steve? Your neighbor?” She poked Anna. “He’s such a sweetheart. So bashful, but he’s a teddy bear.”

“Who’s that with him?” Jubilee demanded. “Please say that isn’t the girlfriend!”

“Girlfriend?” Bucky glanced toward the door, where he saw the hostess showing Steve and a tall, stacked blonde in a pink dry-fit polo and short denim skirt to a table in the back. Bucky watched Steve wait to pull out her chair before he seated himself (typical) and offer the hostess a polite smile as she rattled off the specials of the day. Bucky longed to tell him to skip the ham omelet. He fought the urge to get up and finagle an introduction, not to mention get the full story of what he was seeing, because hello? When was he going to tell Bucky he had a _date_?

“I don’t… think she’s the ‘girlfriend’ quite yet. Unless there’s something he hasn’t told me yet,” Bucky mused aloud. “He’s, uh, my neighbor. We’re pretty good friends.”

Tory caught him staring over there again a minute later. “You can go say hi, if you want?”

“Huh? Oh, no. No. No need. Don’t wanna interrupt him, or anything. Do you want dessert?”

“I was thinking about the tiramisu.”

Bucky couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than espresso-soaked cake; the coffee he drank already was knotting his insides. “Get whatever you want, babe.” She reached up and cupped his cheek.

“He spoils me,” she assured Anna Marie.

“Y’all are cute,” she remarked. 

“We’re having fun,” Tory said, and Bucky was fine with that statement. It summed them up well, whatever they were at the moment. He tried not to stare at Steve again while Ororo was placing her order for dessert.

He failed when he saw him get up out of the corner of his eye to go to the bathroom, spying that tall, beefy build and blond hair. 

“Do you have any more cute neighbors?” Jubilee asked hopefully.

“Nope. The rest of them are married,” Bucky told her. 

“Darn it!” She poked Ali. “I’m gonna die an old lady with a thousand cats.”

“So don’t buy any cats,” Ali retorted. “We can’t all meet Mr. Wonderful through a _friend._ ” Bucky tore his discarded straw wrapper into bits, pretending it was the most intriguing thing in the world.

“I’m just… I’ve gotta make a pit stop,” Bucky murmured. Tory got up to let him pass. “Back in a flash.”

His cheeks were burning as he crossed the crowded dining room. He didn’t even know what he was doing, yet… he managed a better look at Steve’s date as he passed. She was tall; that much he could tell even when she was sitting down, and she was muscular and fit. She had a fair complexion and icy blue eyes. Bucky had no doubt in his mind that she could beat him in an arm wrestling match if the opportunity ever arose. She caught him staring and nodded up at him briefly, but her eyes didn’t smile. Bucky’s eyes darted away. He felt like a jackass.

He made it to the bathroom and realized, to his horror, that there was only one closed stall and two urinal banks against the wall. The sight that greeted him and triggered a rush of fight-or-flight sweat, though, was Steve finishing up at the urinal and glancing up at him over the edge of the divider.

“Uh. Hey. Hey, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes skittered away. Floor tile. Stray crumpled paper towels. His own shoes. He looked anywhere else but up into Steve’s face, because he did _not_ need the shame that an inadvertent peek at Steve’s junk would afford him if his eyes “slipped,” or the terrible, horrible places his mind would take him. Because _Steve._

“Hey. Uh. How’s it goin’?”

“Eh. Y’know.”

“Brunch?”

“Brunch,” he agreed. Bucky heard the brisk, loud _zzzziiiip_ as Steve made himself decent and turned to the sink to wash up. And no, Bucky scolded himself, he was _not_ sneaking a glimpse at Steve’s ass. Until he was. Damn it, Steve, why did you have to look so ridiculously hot in those jeans? “I’m not normally a ‘brunch’ kinda guy, but, y’know. It’s… brunch.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes.” Bucky gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m here with Tory and her friends.”

Steve nodded easily. “Sounds fun.”

“Yeah, it’s not.”

“Right. It’s not. I was trying to make you feel better.” Steve’s smile was crooked, and Bucky snickered.

“One of her friends is someone Nat tried to fix me up with before. It didn’t go well.”

“Ouch…”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve, uh… gotta get back.”

“Noticed you came with a friend.” Because there was no point in pretending he hadn’t noticed, even though his heart was stuttering and it was a struggle to sound casual.

“Her name’s… Carol. Carol Danvers. She’s a private investigator.”

“Wow.” Bucky sounded impressed.

“She has strong feelings about gun permits.”

“Guess she would.”

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your party.”

“Really. You don’t _have_ to,” Bucky insisted, pushing a little desperation into his voice. Steve chuckled and shook his head.

“Libby misses you and Bear.” 

Bucky’s expression softened. “They might have to have a play date soon. He misses her, too.”

_And I miss you, too, you big punk._

“See ya around, Buck.” Bucky wondered for a moment if that was wistfulness he heard in Steve’s voice.

“Later, Steve.” Steve swept out the door. Bucky scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

This day just wasn’t working out.

*

 

Steve did his damnedest to focus on Carol’s words, but he was sure his half of the conversation sounded lackluster.

“…some nights, it’s just hard not to bring my work home with me,” Carol droned.

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, it’s been _forever_ since I walked a beat. We’re just a small start-up, but we’re getting new contracts every month. I love having my name painted on the front door,” she gushed.

“I bet.”

“Best part of the job are the parade of dancing elephants that stampede through my front lobby every Tuesday.”

“Mm-hm… uh. Wait…?”

“Am I boring you?”

Her blue eyes were astute and intrigued. He felt his cheeks heat up. “No! No. Not at all.”

“You seem a little distracted.”

“I’m sorry. I bet you think I’m a total-“

“You keep sneaking looks at that table over there.”

Because of _course_ his eyes kept wandering over to Bucky every time he heard his casual, polite laughter.

“I just… saw someone I know.”

She made a thoughtful noise and went back to her menu. “Think the asparagus frittata is any good?”

“Sounds decent.” He released the breath he’d been holding through his nose. “The ham omelet doesn’t sound-“

“Is one of them an ex of yours?” 

“-bad,” Steve finished. His eyes darted to her face, and she was still perusing the laminated page of offerings with a faint smile. “Pardon?”

“Did you ever date one of them?”

“No! Oh, no. Just… no. Friends only. One of them. Just a friend. Of mine. My neighbor.” Steve wanted to crawl under the table when Carol gazed over there and waved cheerfully, because…

…Bucky was staring over at them. Giving them an assessing glance. Steve felt a funny little dip in his stomach, followed by the little shiver that ran up his spine when Bucky waved back.

“He seems nice,” Carol told him simply. “Y’know, I might go with the frittata.”

*

Steve schooled himself to give Carol his undivided attention for the rest of their meal. They stuck to safe topics, and he passed his phone across the table once to let Carol see his album of shots of Libby, because what else was there to do on a date but show off frame after frame of pic spam?

“You stopped at one? Did you ever want a bigger family, Steve?”

“I was more focused on taking care of the one that I had,” he admitted. “Those first couple of years were hard without her mother.” He didn’t add that trying to figure out his daughter’s assorted mood swings now that she hit puberty was harder than reading Sanskrit without Sharon to act as translator. “I don’t… date much.”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell at all,” Carol demurred, and Steve chuckled self-deprecatingly. 

“Yeah, well. Anyway…”

“So. If this wasn’t a date, would it be any easier?”

“Well…”

“Because I’ll admit it, I suck at dates. I love Gwen, don’t get me wrong. She’s awesome. You’re awesome, I might add. But somehow, I don’t see us hitting it off. Not for lack of witty small talk…”

Steve let out a gusty sigh. “What kind of stuff do you do with friends, usually?”

“Hit up a cardio kickboxing class. Watch Bruce Willis movies. Pizza and beer…”

“Wait… seriously?” Carol nodded and grinned. “Then what’s the deal with this ‘brunch’ stuff?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Gwen suggested it. C’mon, she _did_ fix us up.”

“We haven’t ordered yet,” Steve pointed out.

“Wanna hit Gino’s on Fifth?”

“Promise me no onions or anchovies, and I’m your pigeon.”

 

Bucky watched them get up and go without having ordered anything. He was immediately envious and apprehensive. He hoped Steve leaving with his date wasn’t _his_ fault for staring? 

“Wanna bite, Bucky? It’s to die for,” Tory offered as she lifted a forkful of dessert toward his lips. Her eyes were flirty for a moment, but they flitted across the room, following the same path as his.

“No. I’m… I’m good, Tory. Enjoy it.” And it looked delectable and rich, but Bucky had no appetite.

“Hm. Okay.” She closed her lips around the small bite and moaned briefly – tellingly – over how good it was, and Bucky’s attention flicked back to her, fully. Tory licked a dab of cream from her plump lip.

She had his _full_ attention. Deservedly.

“Are we, uh, ready for the check?” he asked the table in general. 

“Aw, do y’all hafta rush off?” Anna Marie asked, shaping her mouth into a small moue of disappointment. 

“Shame,” Ali muttered into her depleted cup of coffee. Bucky shrugged helplessly in her direction.

“Time flies, huh?” he countered. “Sure you’ve got a full day.”

“Suuuuuure do.” She winked and made little shooty fingers at him. _Bang, bang._

Bucky was done with “brunch.” 

“CHECK, please!”

*

 

So. The big date was a wash. But the pizza ended up being delicious, the company was stellar, because Steve and Carol agreed that having their fingernails ripped out one at a time was preferable to “small talk,” and Carol was an excellent bowler.

“My ex is a functioning alcoholic. Genius inventor type. Had plans for this ‘arc reactor’ that went right over my head, but his face used to just light up whenever he would talk about it with anyone smart enough to understand him.” She took a generous bite of a folded slice of all-meat with extra cheese. “Imagine Plato explaining his philosophy to Elmo…”

“Somehow, I doubt that. You’re smart as a whip.”

“Aw, you’re cute.” Carol chuckled under her breath. “Seriously. You _are_ cute. Young, hard working, single-“

“Divorced,” he interjected.

“-which still counts as _single_ ,” she pressed, “ _hot_ ,” she added, “and you seem pretty stable.”

“Stable. How highly you think of me.”

“My ex is a functioning alcoholic,” she repeated dryly.

“Touche.”

“So, what’s the deal with you and that ‘neighbor’ of yours?”

“He’s pretty taken. By a pretty girl.”

“The really tall, model-ly looking one with hair I’d kill for?” Steve nodded. “Wow. She was… _wow_.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he know you…?”

“No. No, no. Definitely not. I’ve never given him any reason to think I want… y’know.”

“No reason at all?” she pressed. “Not even a little?”

“We’re just buddies. We help each other out.” Steve huffed, and a slightly goofy smile twisted his lips. “The other day, he came over to watch Smackdown with Libby and me. I don’t even like wrestling, but Libby gets into it, and the two of them chant all of the catch phrases with the audience, and know all of their signature moves. He’s really good at doing ‘the People’s Eyebrow!’” Steve tried to shape his features into the Rock’s trademark leer and only succeeded in looking ridiculous. Carol snorted into her soda cup, nearly exhaling some through her nose.

“That’s not a good look on you,” she choked shallowly, snickering.

“Bucky makes it work, though.”

“Buck… _Bucky?_ That’s his name???”

“Yeah. It’s a nickname.”

“Did he go to Ohio State, or something?”

“No,” Steve murmured. He smiled as he toyed with his soda, pushing down the ice chips with his straw. “His middle name is Buchanan.”

“Oh,” Carol mused. “That’s not too bad.”

“It kinda suits him.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re whipped.”

 

She managed to beat him in every frame they bowled. She was right.

Steve had it _bad._

 

*

The ride back to Tory’s apartment was a little off. Quiet. Tense. Bucky’s skin felt like it didn’t fit him, and Tory seemed like she was biting back things she wanted to say, too. She glanced over at him briefly at a red light, then gently squeezed his knee. It was one of her tells. There might be a “round two” in the immediate future, or at least a little fooling around while they watched something safe on cable.

She stopped at a gas station to fill up. Bucky immediately unbuckled his seat belt as she got out to use her debit at the fourth pump. “Do you want anything?” she asked easily, peeking back at him through the driver side window.

“I’m fine. Here. If you do, let me do that.” 

“You don’t have to,” she insisted, but he was already out and around the front, and he took the nozzle from her.

“I want to. Go ahead and pop in there if you want.”

“Aren’t you nice?” she murmured. Her hand slipped around his waist, caressing him briefly as she kissed him. That answered the silent question on Bucky’s mind, would Tory be in the mood when they got back, instead of cutting it short for the sake of breathing room. Lingering at her place, even though they’d been out and about, felt like he was overstaying his welcome, like the last kid to leave a slumber party.

But she seemed game when he finished filling her tank. She walked out with a pack of mints and an Arizona green tea with honey just as he holstered the nozzle. Tory gave him another kiss.

“Thanks for the fill-up, baby.”

“Anything for my best girl,” he drawled. 

She gave him a look of mock surprise, then smiled. “Am I?”

“Yeah.” He stroked a tendril of her hair, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertip.

“Good,” she murmured. Her soft blue eyes searched his face before she moved away from him, started the engine.

Bucky wondered if she needed the reassurance as they rode the rest of the way home. He wondered what he did to plant that seed. 

They were canoodling in the elevator, fingers laced together. “Did you have a good time? Were my friends too much?” Tory asked pointedly.

“No. Not at all.” _Except for Alison. Yeah, just so you know, she hates my guts._ “They were fine. I had fun with them. And with you.” That answer pleased her.

“I have a whole bunch of Game of Thrones episodes saved. I’m a whole season behind,” she admitted, and Bucky dismissed his earlier misgivings. She planned for him to stay a while, right?

Right?

She locked the door behind them and automatically pulled him close. She hummed in pleasure at the taste of him, at the feel of his arm looping snugly around her waist. Bucky groaned in pleasure at the familiarity of her warmth and softness, the scent of her skin as she ambled him backward toward her room, signaling that they would put their binge watching aside, for the moment. 

By the time they came up for air, the sun had already gone down. They lay together in the dark, drawing patterns on each other’s skin, fingers stroking through tangled hair as Ororo’s small plasma screen threw bluish, flickering light over them both. They winced at a spectacularly graphic beheading.

“Ew,” she muttered. 

“They must spend a fortune on corn syrup and food coloring to make this show,” Bucky said. He nuzzled her temple. She tightened her grip on him. 

“If brunch wasn’t your thing… we don’t have to do it again, you know.”

Tact kept him from cheering, along with a funny little buzzing at his nape, a prickle.

“I had a good time with you,” he argued.

“I just want you to know. That’s all. We can talk about these things. Okay?” She leaned up from him, staring down into his face. She nibbled the cleft in his chin. “Okay?” she prodded.

“O…kay…” He mulled that, and a divot worked its way between his brows. “We’re talking? What are ‘these things’ we’re talking about right now?”

“Just… things. Expectations.” She sighed as she settled down against him. “Boundaries. Stuff that I can put on ‘good things to know about my boyfriend’ list while we’re in this phase.”

“List? Phase?” Now he felt moths flitting around in his stomach. “What ‘phase?’”

“The early one. The ‘fun part.’ We’re having fun, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I am,” she pointed out.

“We are,” he said into her hair. She stroked his calf with her foot. They were snuggled together easily, a comfortable fit, but the conversation was undoing him. Badly.

“So, I guess I want to know how we can best keep it ‘fun,’” she admitted. “Brunch might not be the best way.”

“It. Might. Not?” 

Ororo snickered, then nipped his chest. “Right. Scratch brunch off the list, forever and ever. Underline it three times in red ink!”

“Babe, we can do whatever you want!”

“Let’s do some things that _you_ want. This? This right here? This is nice.”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“See? We’re talking. Communicating.”

“Communicating feels an awful lot like boning.”

“Don’t make me lose the point I was trying to make.”

“Continue.” But she groaned in contentment when he kneaded her neck.

“I had a point. God, don’t _stop_ , that feels delicious.”

“You get to brunch with your girlfriends.”

“Agreed,” she purred into his throat. He felt himself stirring back to life under the mound of blankets.

“You get to have fun with me. Since we’re in the ‘fun phase.’”

“Which occasionally involves boning?”

“Occasionally? Just… wait a minute, what’s this ‘occasionally’ stuff, Munroe?!?”

“Okay… _more_ than occasionally.” Bucky liked her soft, husky laughter in the dark. “Sporting events aren’t deal breakers. I’ve been known to watch the odd hockey or basketball game from time to time.” She yawned gustily. “Action movies with titties and explosions.”

“I get to watch titties and explosions?” Bucky asked incredulously. “I’ve hit the jackpot with you!”

“Goofball. I’m just making the point that I’m _used_ to them.” She sighed, and Bucky fought the urge to echo it. Because, of course, _Vic._

Coherent conversation proved impossible by the second episode of her DVR catalog. They both dozed with the volume turned low. Bucky didn’t know how long he was even out, but he woke a short while later when Ororo’s leg jerked sharply where it was draped over both of his, maybe from a cramp. He patted around the bed and found the remote, hitting “Don’t Delete” after punching the stop key. When the sound died off and the room went black, he heard her slow, even gusts of breath, feeling them steam his skin. 

_The “good things to know about my boyfriend” list._ There was only one item on that list, Bucky realized. It was a hell of a dealbreaker. 

The fun phase might be their swan song.

_Please, God. Never let her ask me about Steve._

 

*

He left a while later, remembering that he needed to walk Bear and regretting that he lost the chance for the day at the park. Tory gave him lingering, sleepy kisses goodnight, yawning as she followed him to the door so she could do up her dead bolts.

“Drive safe,” she murmured.

“G’night, babe.”

“’Night-night.” Another brief peck and he was off, feeling pleasantly raw and loose. He rode with the windows down and hummed along with “Man on the Moon” once his tuner found a station he could stand. He stopped at the same gas station when he realized he needed milk, and he topped off his tank. The attendant at the counter raised a brow at his rumpled state and very disheveled hair, but Bucky didn’t care. _Least I’m getting some, pal. Eyes back in your head._

When he pulled into his driveway, he noticed a strange car in Steve’s driveway. He checked his clock display. Nine-forty. Damn it. Had he been at Tory’s that long?

The better question was, who was _Steve_ entertaining at that hour of the night?

His skin felt prickly again as he got out and locked up, but before he could start up his front walk, he saw Steve’s porch light flick on. Bucky lingered in the shadows and held his breath.

“…I had a really good time,” said the statuesque blonde from the café, pink pullover, legs and all. _Shit._ And there was Steve, giving her that sunny smile that made Bucky’s stomach twist.

“Same here.” And of _course_ she leaned in and kissed him, a chaste little exchange, but the hug lingered, the why-does-this-have-to-be-goodnight? kind, complete with that little sway and a lot of back rubbing. 

What was that strange, burning feeling flaring up in Bucky’s chest?

Right, right. It took him a moment to put his finger on it: He was _jealous as hell._

“Call me,” Bucky heard her say in encouraging tones. She turned and started down Steve’s steps. “Oh. Hi, there!”

Bucky froze. Steve’s smile faltered behind her.

“Hey. Buck. Long time, uh, no see.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” Bucky agreed hollowly. He tried to continue his walk up to his own porch, but Carol intercepted him, leaning over the short hedge separating their lawns with her hand extended. _Fuck, fuck, FUCK._ Bucky didn’t leave her hanging. Her grip was pleasantly firm, not the hesitant, almost germophobic clasp of someone who really _didn’t_ want to shake hands, but who was indulging him to be polite. Her eyes were sharp and intelligent, and up close, she was fresh-faced and beautiful. Next to Steve, both of them looked like they should be on the same Wheaties box.

“So you’re Steve’s neighbor. I’m Carol. Carol Danvers.”

“Nice to meet you.” And it was unfair, because she was easygoing, but resentment made even the simplest attempt at conversation uncomfortable.

Steve had this strange look, like Bucky caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Carol released his hand and sighed. She glanced back at Steve. “Call me, okay?”

“Okay,” he called after her.

Carol turned back to Bucky. “Long day?” she asked.

“Uh…

“I’ll leave you to the rest of it. Nice meeting you,” she told him before she strode to her black coupe. She waved at both of them as she backed out and pulled away, and Bucky realized he was lingering outside to watch her.

Then it hit him that Steve was still on his porch, too, watching _him_. “Hey,” Bucky said.

“Hey, Bucky.”

“Not on call tonight?”

“Uh-uh. No way I would’ve seen daylight today if I was.” 

Steve chuckled, nodding. “Guess not.”

“So. Carol.”

“Yeah. That Gwen. She gave me her number.”

“I know, right?”

“A person gets married, and they want to fix up all their single friends.”

“Nat’s not even married, and she’s _always_ playing matchmaker. But you knew that,” Bucky reminded him.

“Turned out okay for you, though,” Steve pointed out.

“Did you, uh, have a good time with… Carol? It was Carol, right?”

“Carol,” Steve agreed, nodding again. “Sure did. She’s nice.”

Just what Bucky didn’t want to hear. He longed for Steve to tell him “Oh, God, Nat was so off-base with this one! I’ve gotta tell you about it over a beer!”

He just wanted to sit down with Steve and talk. In the dark, with shadows from the television screen flickering over them, listening to his laugh.

“That’s good, Steve.”

“Yeah. It was pretty good.”

“I’m gonna go walk Bear.”

“It’s a nice night for it.”

“Where’s the squirt?”

“Taking a turn sleeping over at her friend’s.” Steve shook his head. “I can’t even keep snacks in the house, lately. At least I get a break from listening to Justin Bieber for a few hours.” 

Bucky winced. “The joys of fatherhood.”

“Go walk your dog, Barnes!”

“G’night, Steve.”

“’Night.”

*

Bucky lingered a few minutes inside, sifting through his mail while Bear rested his head adoringly on Bucky’s lap. By the time he had him leashed and headed down his front walk, Steve’s porch light was off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was such a long "filler" chapter. And sorry for more het sex. I PROMISE I'm working up to some more concrete Stucky, but I love to make these two cringe a little first. I'm all about that angst, about that angst, all trouble... *humming*
> 
> Side note, though: Big Johnson t-shirts. Oh, my goodness. They were the WORST. Such tacky nineties trash. The ones with the little skinny, nerdy guy in glasses wielding large, phallic looking objects like golf clubs, surrounded by buxom, nipply women. Google them. You will be as ashamed of Bucky as I am now that he used to OWN one!!!


	7. Good Morning, Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good ones bring you coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original draft of this chapter got eaten when my PC crashed. I had about nine or ten pages that will never see the light of day. SO upsetting.  
> I know the "slow burn" aspect of this story has been horrendously slow. I just can't see Steve rushing into things as a single parent, and I wanted to follow my prompt.
> 
> So, yeah. More angst. And coffee.

Steve woke up abruptly to the sag of his mattress behind him and soft fingers prodding the tip of his nose.

"Errrrggghh...."

"Dad. Wake up. Dad. Wake up." Libby's droned in his ear and poked his cheek. Then poked it again. "Wake. Up. Wake. Up." Poke. Poke. Poke.

Steve swatted her hand away. "Pleeeeease stop."

"I'm poking you," she announced cheerfully.

"I see that."

"Your face is all smushed from the pillow," she said, tracing the long crease in his cheek.

"Uh-huh. That's nice." Without even opening his eyes, he reached up and patted her cheek, feeling the crack of her smile.

"Daddy, it's Field Trip Day."

He exhaled a sigh that was long-suffering and rife with defeat. "Right. That's today."

"Did you wash my swim shirt?"

"Did you put it in the laundry the last time?" he countered. He rubbed his gritty eyes and yawned, and she wisely scooted off the bed as he rolled over to stretch.

"Yes," she claimed, but she was hesitant. Steve groaned. That meant he would have to drop everything and root through the laundry pile before he even had his first cup of coffee.

"Go shower. Should be a clean towel in the hall bathroom already." He retreated to the one adjoining his room, needing refuge from the morning's burdens and a moment to pee in peace.  
He heard her shuffle off down the hall and shut the bathroom door. He mentally lined up his morning tasks as he stood at the commode:

Breakfast, always fun on a morning of grocery night. Steve doubted he even had two bread heels in the bag.  
Driving Libby to the beach for her field trip.  
Client meeting.  
Client meeting.  
Client meeting across town.  
Conference call.  
Picking Libby up from the beach.  
Picking up his dry cleaning.  
And, Sharon.

His whole day fell into sharp focus, and he already felt drained. Libby had been strangely quiet whenever he asked her what she planned to do on her visit with her mother, but Steve knew she was excited about it, brimming with all of the things she could only discuss with another woman. Ex-wife or not, Sharon was the working blueprint that Steve would have to refer back to as Libby matured. Hearing her voice and laugh changing, growing more like Sharon's, seeing her fill out the clothes that he now had to buy her from the juniors' section, watching her hair darken to a honey blonde, and noticing his conversations with his daughter getting shorter - getting Libby to tell him any details about her school day took an act of congress - was sobering. Strange. Frightening. Having a son would have been less complicated. Or at least it would have involved fewer mood swings (possibly).

Steve saw Sharon whenever he looked at Libby, and she saw and heard shades of his mother, too, and it made him ache so much to know that Sarah would never be there for all of her milestones and firsts. He wished that Libby could have had play dates and trips to the flea market and afternoons of baking with his mother. Fate wasn't kind. Libby was usually terse and quiet when they made the trip to lay pink roses on her grave; every time, it left him feeling hollow. Lonely.

Sharon's visits with Libby were precious. Schooling himself to be cordial when she arrived sometimes took more energy than Steve felt he possessed. But he mustered up his most benign, noncommittal smile and greeted her with an awkward hug, telling himself that she didn’t feel stiff and foreign in his arms. His soul was confused; she was his safe harbor, once. He didn’t know this tense, too-polite stranger in her place, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear to fill the silent space between them in a way that words and good intentions couldn’t anymore.

He didn’t know when he stopped being Sharon’s safe place, either, if he was being honest.

His pajamas drifted to the floor in a heap as he wandered into the shower, turning the spray up full blast to wash away the cobwebs, watching the water sluice through his hair in runnels as he leaned into it. His night of sleep had been too short to deal with the number of things he had to pack into the next sixteen hours.

Being an adult sucked.

“Did you find it?” Libby bellowed from down the hall while Steve stood lathering his jaw, brandishing his razor. His eyes shuttered in annoyance.

“I will in a minute, Libs, but you could be looking for it in the meantime,” he suggested.

“I don’t know where to look!” she whined back.

“Can I have five minutes?” Steve pleaded.

“Okay!” He heard her thumping around in her room, rummaging through what sounded like her closet, no doubt looking for her flip-flops in the morass of clothes, books, board games, and other odds and ends that never made it to the wastebasket or into a drawer. Steve hurried through his shave, perhaps thunking the sudsy dual blade a little too hard against the edge of the sink.

“Dad! I FOUND IT!”

He paused in rinsing his face, foam dripping off his chin. “Where, baby?”

“In the closet,” she explained.

“Is it fresh?” he asked cautiously.

“...no.”

Steve growled. He couldn’t let her go to the beach in a funky suit. He doused his face and scrubbed it dry and got just decent enough to head downstairs, padding down the hall in his work slacks and undershirt. “Give me that,” he told her. “Go ahead and finish getting ready. I’m going to dunk this real quick and dry it. Think about what you want for breakfast.”

“What do we have?”

“No clue. Happy hunting.” She made a face and shut him out of her frilly room again, and Steve made his escape to the laundry room, thudding down the stairs. Steve took the swim shirt to the small wash sink beside his washer and dryer and doused it under the faucet and drizzled it with a half a capful of Tide, hand-scrubbing the pale pink spandex and wrinkling his nose at the fumes wafting up from it. _Hamper next time, Liberty. Geez._ He rinsed it, wrung it, and set it on top of the dryer while he emptied out a load that was already there, leaving in a couple of pairs of jeans that still felt a little soggy. He threw in the swim shirt and set it tumbling for fifteen minutes, and he met Libby in the kitchen, where she stood scowling into the nearly empty fridge.

“Daddy, we need to go grocery shopping.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Can you make French toast?” Steve reached up to the bread box atop the fridge and grabbed the nearly empty bag. Sure enough, just as he thought, two bread heels. There were two eggs left in the carton and maybe - if he was being generous in his estimate - a half a cup of milk in the bottom of the jug.

“French toast it is.” He pulled out the syrup bottle. It mocked him, a mere tablespoon glistening in the bottom. He tipped it upside down on its end on the counter to let gravity do its work and he started mixing the batter for toast, hoping Libby wouldn’t care that it was the heels.

“Oh, Daddy, don’t forget to sign this.” Libby dug in her backpack and produced a crumpled blue permission slip.

“Thanks for telling me the night before so I don’t end up making you miss out on your trip,” Steve sang as he sprinkled a generous amount of cinnamon into his bowl and continued to beat the eggs. Libby gave him her puppy dog eyes.

“I’m sorry?” she attempted, smiling as she handed him a pen and the slip. He gave her his best Tough Dad face and snatched both out of her hands with a flourish. Steve scrawled his signature, her last immunization date and his emergency contact info on the bottom. “Three o’clock?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. You have to come and pick me up.”

“That’s fine.” Kind of, if he cut one of his meetings short. He handed her the slip and produced two less than impressive slices of toast. The syrup bottle sputtered loud and flatulent as she worked out the last few drops; Steve _really_ needed to go shopping. Libby kept squeezing the bottle just for the sake of the noises, smirking up at Steve. “Excuse you,” he said, pretending to be affronted. He rinsed out the toast batter bowl, but before he could crack the remaining egg into it, someone rapped on his front door at a polite volume.

“Okay,” he muttered as he went to answer it, glad he hadn’t been caught in his pajamas, not that he was ready to greet company.

Unless that company was Bucky.

He stood there looking faintly stubbled and exhausted, eyes sleepy and dark-circled. Steve longed to reach for him, bring him inside and tuck him under the covers. Bucky still wore his paramedic togs and badge. Tendrils of hair were flying loose from his ponytail, and he held a venti-sized Starbucks cup out to Steve. “What’s this?”

“Precious nectar of salvation. Take and drink with my blessings, Rogers.” Steve grinned as Bucky pretty much shoved it into his hand and stepped back a little as Bucky brushed past him into his foyer. “It was a full moon last night,” he informed him as he entered the kitchen. “Hey, Libster.”

“Hi, Mr. Barnes,” she mumbled around a mouthful of toast, waving. She straightened up and automatically shoved the nearest chair out from the table for him to sit down, and Bucky sank into it with a rusty sigh, legs sprawling in front of him.

“Hey, kiddo. Man, I’m _whipped_. Stay in school, Libby. Stay a kid. Work is for crazy people. Actually, I take that back. NOC shift is for crazy people.” She grinned over the edge of her glass.

“Long night?” Steve asked as he sipped his drink, and oh, it hit the spot.

“It was a doozy. Can’t wait to wake up and do it all over again, Stevie. Highlights of my night included two car wrecks, a neck fracture from falling off a barstool, a 5150 call for a guy running naked down the freeway yelling that he was God, and a partially eviscerated bowel from a stabbing at a basement party. All minors. Tox screen positive for everything.” Steve winced. “Stay clean, Libster.”

“I know,” she told him.

“Listen to your Uncle Buck,” Steve quipped. Libby rolled her eyes and Bucky groaned at his efforts.

"Where are you headed today, kiddo?" Bucky noticed Libby dressed in a tank top and shorts, bathing suit straps visible over the neckline and flip-flops on her feet.

"Beach field trip," she supplied.

"I'm jealous," he admitted. "I'm not gonna see the light of today after I walk Bear, though."

"Do you work tonight?" Steve prodded as he poured his egg into the skillet.

"Uh-uh. It's my weekend, but I worked a twelve." Bucky scrubbed his palm over his face and yawned, and Steve continued to fight the urge to massage his neck, stroke his hair, just any small gesture or touch. Any physical token of empathy for him, because Bucky was exhausted, and Steve was running on fumes himself. As though he read Steve's thoughts, Bucky smirked up at him.

"You look like you needed that coffee."

"Having a hard time getting my motor running," he admitted. He was interrupted from saying anything else by the dryer buzzer, signaling that Libby's suit shirt was done.

"Was that man really naked?" Libby asked, eyes wide.

"As the day he was born."

"Ew."

"Back in a flash." Steve headed downstairs to retrieve Libby's swim shirt, wishing he had more time before he had to get on the road. It was so tempting to laze around the breakfast table with Libby and Bucky, and he wasn't ready to face the day yet. Steve fished the shirt out of the dryer and gave it an experimental sniff; it was fresh enough. He trotted back upstairs, and to his chagrin, found Bucky scraping his eggs out of the pan onto a plate.

"Think you forgot about these."

"Thanks."

“Is this all you’re having?”

“It’s grocery night,” Steve explained, “and I don’t have the time for anything else.” Bucky set the plate on the table and pulled up a chair for Steve, who huffed and smiled before he sat down. Bucky handed him his coffee again.

“On that note, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You look really tired, Mr. Barnes,” Libby offered.

“Are you kidding? I could go another ten rounds!”

“Hey, Mr. Barnes, can you come to my eighth grade graduation night?”

Bucky blinked.

“Wait, did you say _eighth grade?_ ” Libby nodded. “Eighth. As in, _junior high_. As in, you’re going into _high school_ next fall.”

“Uh-huh.” She looked amused at his efforts to get caught up. Bucky’s mind short-circuited.

“You’re not supposed to be that old already!”

“But I am!” She kept giggling, and that, at least, reminded him of Little Liberty Rogers, pint-sized, mugly-cute and too smart for her age, just the kind of firecracker one might expect for a girl born on the Fourth of July. Like her dad.

“Okay. See? I’m getting old. I’m forgetting how to do math. That means I’ve known you for _half your life._ ”

“Wow,” Steve muttered, because now, like Bucky, he looked _floored_.

Because he’d lived next to Bucky for that long, pining. Wishing. Lonely.

“So, Libby, when is it?”

“Next Friday.”

“If you have to work-” Steve began.

“No. I even have the night before that off. I’ll be fresh as a daisy. Or at least, fresh enough. Semi-coherent,” he promised. 

Steve huffed a laugh. “You’re welcome to come.”

“Thanks, Steve.” Bucky got up from the table, stretching as he stood, and his yawn was cavernous and long-suffering. “C’mere, kiddo.” Libby obediently got up and gave him a polite hug. “Take it easy on your dad. He’s getting old.” 

Her return grin was snarky, and she nodded and shrugged. “I know.”

“So old, I might forget to give someone their allowance…”

“Hey! Okay, you’re _not_ old! You’r’e not old!”

“I can’t hear you. Us old people get a little hard of hearing…” Steve teased.

“You’re not old!”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Bucky told them again. Steve got up and walked him to the door.

“Where did the time go?” Bucky murmured as he turned on Steve’s porch, (Because he needed one last look.)

“Got me.” (Because he meant it. Bucky got him. On so many levels.)

“Have a good day, Rogers.”

“Nobody else has ever, will ever pack as much fun into the next sixteen hours as yours truly.” That earned him a smirk from Bucky.

“What’s on your docket besides the field trip?”

“Meetings out the ass and a visit with Sharon for Libby.”

Bucky hummed in understanding, a light dawning in his eyes. “That’s why you look a little down.”

Did he? “I’ll manage, Buck. Thanks again for the coffee. That was just… really nice.”

Bucky wanted to hug him so much. He settled for a brief clap on the shoulder, which earned him a smile. “Any time.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“G’night, Rogers.”

*

Steve was plagued by all of those annoying little voices in his consciousness that nagged him about All the Better Things He Could Have Done or Said as he went about his day.

Sweet dreams? He couldn’t have just said “Sleep well?” Or “Get some shut-eye?” He didn’t tell Bucky to bring his girlfriend with him to Libby’s promotion if he wanted, since technically, weren’t they a package deal? What was the etiquette for that type of thing? Shouldn’t he have asked him how Tory was doing, just to be polite? Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to discuss relationship stuff with Libby at the table. What prompted him to bring over coffee? Did that mean something besides just… coffee?

Out of the blue, his cell phone rang, and he was surprised to see it was Carol.

“Hey,” he said, hoping she heard the smile in his voice. “This is a surprise!”

“I’m sneaky. Most people in my line of work are, anyway. How’s your day going?”

“Meetings. Field trip to pick my daughter up from. And a visit from the ex-wife tonight. And my neighbor brought me coffee.”

“You mean Hot Neighbor?”

“One and the same.”

“He still dating Tall and Leggy?”

“Far as I know.”

“You sound thrilled.”

Steve sighed.

“But he brought you coffee.”

“A venti.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. It’s a simple enough gesture. It’s nice. Friendly. But, it also just seems like he put some real thought into it.”

“And he had just gotten off from work.”

“Oh. He works nights?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he brought you coffee instead of just staggering right into his own house, unplugging his phone, locking the door, and drooling into the pillow until sunset?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve… you big goof. He LIKES you.”

“But-”

“Come on, now. On the one hand, it’s coffee. On the other hand, it was still going out of his way. It was still him wanting to see your smiling face as the last thing before he climbed into bed. There’s no way he doesn’t like you, Steven Rogers. As in, ‘likes you,’ likes you.”

Because sometimes, Carol Danvers could be very smart.

“I just don’t want to read too much into it.”

And sometimes, Steve Rogers could be very clueless.

*

Around 2PM, Steve received a text from his daughter.

_Daddy, Mom texted me. She said she can pick me up from the beach._

Relief mingled with annoyance. That gave him no time to give the house a quick once-over cleaning or to go food shopping before she got there.

_That’s nice, sweetheart._

She sent back a few heart and smiley emojis that made him chuckle.

_America’s mom lets her wear a bikini._

Steve shook his head. _Nice try. But no._ That earned him a frowny emoji, You couldn’t win ‘em all.

_Mom said that the two of us are going to go to dinner at Olive Garden._

And that answered the question of what Sharon expected for dinner. Steve didn’t know whether to be relieved, or to feel like Sharon was cutting his feet off at his ankles. He had so many things he wanted to talk to her about, like Libby’s plans for the summer, her last doctor’s visits, her sports physical for the new school year and if Sharon’s emergency contact information was the same…

It was just so hard. Sharon came and went when she wanted, while Steve was left with Libby’s mood swings every time she walked back out the door. Steve didn’t want to begrudge his daughter a nice girls’ dinner, certainly. But he didn’t need to feel defeated when she circumvented him. She should have called him first about picking Libby up. He’d been looking forward to it, just a few minutes of sanity with his daughter before he had to go back to meeting hell. _Thanks a heap, Sharon._

All he could do was be a good sport. _Have fun with Mom. Don’t overdo it with the breadsticks._

*

Two successful plan renewals. One plan change. One rate change. Not bad for a day’s work. Steve’s Outlook was finally cleaned out, but his inbox basket was full of contracts and mail that would need to be attended tomorrow. He had a crick in his neck that he couldn’t crack, his feet were tired of wearing his work shoes, and he was starving. 

He logged off, clocked out, and sat in rush hour traffic on his way to Safeway to fuel his car and purchase some incidentals until they could make their bigger Costco grocery run on the weekend. Milk. Rice Chex. A large frozen pizza. Apples. Yogurt. Eggs. A loaf of bread. Spaghetti and sauce. That would do. 

He noticed when he got home just how dirty his car was, because of _course_ he would once he was already past the car wash that was three blocks from his work, already home, and ready to stay in for the night. Steve mentally laid out his next three hours - laundry, dinner for one, a little basic cable, and waiting for Sharon and Libby to get home - and decided he might fit in washing the car by hand after dinner, if he could find his rags and bucket in the basement. Washing the car wasn’t even the _worst_ chore in the world; he just seldom felt like doing it. Steve left his shoes at the front door and put away the groceries quickly, headed upstairs, and shed his work clothes in favor of a faded gray Hanes tee and a pair of basketball shorts with a ripped pocket. Once he was dressed in something he wouldn’t care about accidentally staining while he was cooking (and eating) dinner, Steve rummaged in the fridge, promising himself he would save the pizza for when Libby was home to help him eat it.

Still nothing appealing. The crisper was empty except for a bag of liquefied spinach (yecccchhhh) and some wilted celery. He had a couple of flour tortillas left in the bag, a stub of cheddar cheese that was only slightly crusty, and the last teaspoon of oil in the Wesson bottle. A quesadilla would have to do. He singed it a little while he was getting the worst of the breakfast dishes out of the way, but he could still scrape it to edibility if it meant that he didn’t have to make himself anything else. Evenings without Libby were lonely as hell. But they meant he didn’t really have to _cook_.

Within an hour, he had the laundry folded, the bathroom smelling fresh, the kitchen mopped, living room vacuumed, and the sudden cluelessness of what to do next. Then he glanced out the window, an irresistible urge when Libby was out for the evening with her mother, and remembered his filthy car.

“Bucket,” he muttered. Right. Time to re-direct. Steve headed into the basement and reminded himself that Saturday might be a good day to clean that out, too. He turned on the overhead light with the tiny chain and managed to find his washing supplies under a mound of blankets that Libby had abandoned instead of putting them back in the linen pantry the last time they went camping. But on his way upstairs, trotting up the wooden steps, he banked his toe on the top one and stumbled up onto the landing with an inadvertent “FUCK! Fuckshitfuck! Fuckity…!” The pain burst up his foot and staggered him. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.” His voice was a hiss of annoyance. His two middle toes throbbed; he wondered if he sprained them. That left his whole week sorted and left his usual treadmill workout at the gym out of the question for a few days. Nothing was worse than running on sore toes.

He headed outside, limping slightly and still barefoot, and Steve gathered up his hose from the spool and turned on the spigot. The length of hose spasmed once in his hand as it filled, and the sprayer handle hissed and bubbled, waiting for the first strong blast. The car looked worse than Steve first estimated; the mirrors were foggy with grit and his whitewalls were anything _but_. He poured a liberal amount of washing fluid into the bucket and filled it with water, watching the setting sun creating rainbow bubbles in the foam. It still felt good to be outside, bare feet cooled by the stray spray from the hose as he began to rinse down the car.

“Hey, wanna hit mine next?” 

_Bucky._

Because of _of course_ the next time he would see him, the dark-haired, hot paramedic would be refreshed, shaved, combed and gorgeous, while Steve looked less than savory, bare feet and all, several hours after Bucky caught him in his boxers that morning. _Nice._ He tried to ignore the flush he felt creeping into his cheeks. “Just pull through the car port and stop when the sign tells you to. That’ll be ten bucks, buddy. Wanna wax?”

_Oh, did he._ Bucky didn’t take the easy opportunity that Steve gave him. He enjoyed his bashful smile and the way the sunlight was making gold glints dance in his hair. He was stripped down, wholesome and relaxed, something that was rare for Steve, lately. Bucky was enjoying the sight of him in the snug tee and long shorts that still managed to show off a toned, powerful pair of legs.

“Ten bucks? That’s highway robbery!”

“Inflation. It’s a thing. You’re a working man, Buck. Treat yourself, right?”

He did it again. Bucky suppressed the naughty thoughts again and gave Steve a shrug. “Throw in a free pine tree air freshener, and you’ve got my business, Stevie.”

_Stevie._ Steve ducked his face and snickered. “You look a little less like death warmed over.”

“It was a near thing. The guy on the other side of me had a flooring removal company come in and rip up his old tile first thing in the morning, right after you and the Libster left. Sleep wasn’t happening for the first four hours, and Bear barked up a storm. Poor guy.”

“That sucks. Wow.”

“Once I finally drifted off, though… man, it felt good. Just felt myself melt into the mattress.”

“I love that kind of sleep. Haven’t slept that way since I was in college.”

Bucky grinned. “Exactly. Man, it sucks being an adult, doesn’t it?”

“Worse than anything else.” Steve went around his car to begin scrubbing the hood and wheel wells. Bucky continued to enjoy the view of that round, perfect ass draped in Lycra knit as he bent over. He babied the paint job with the sponge, suds spurting between those long fingers. The ones that no longer sported a wedding ring, he quietly reminded himself.

“Where’s Libby, anyway?”

“With her mom. Dinner.”

Bucky made a face of realization, because right, Steve had mentioned that. “So you’re batching it.”

“Pretty much. I kinda climb the walls when she isn’t here. I never know what to do with myself.”

“Dunno. Dance around in your underwear in the living room like in ‘Risky Business?’ But, minus the prostitutes?”

“Hmmmm.” Steve pretended to consider. “That’s a no, Buck.”

_But you would look sexy in those boxers again, Stevie._ “Awwwww. Spoil sport. Live a little.”

“Don’t you have lives to save?” Steve pointed out, even though he didn’t want him to leave.

“I can take a hint, Rogers. So, when I get back, full wax and detail the interior. I might even tip ya.”

“Har-de-har.” Steve wandered around the other side of the car, and he noticed him hobbling a bit, stepping gingerly on his left foot. 

“Hurt yourself?”

“Huh? Oh. I banked the crap out of my foot coming up the stairs.”

“Ouch.” Bucky peered down and noticed that those two toes looked a little swollen when Steve wiggled them at him. “Go ice them when you sit down.”

“Is that your trained medical opinion?”

“Nope. I just manage to bang the crap out of my own toes about once every other month when I get up in the middle of the night to let Bear out and I’m too lazy to turn on a light. I keep telling myself I need to get rid of my coffee table, but I’m a dumb ass, Steve. I never learn.”

“Can’t get rid of the corner edge of the wall, though,” Steve told him.

“They need to just make those round,” Bucky opined. “Listen, I’ll get going. Ice those toes. Live it up a little.”

“Hey, I live dangerously, Bucky. I’ve got a hot date with Netflix and my solitaire deck.”

“You player, you.” 

Steve’s eyes crinkled at the horrible pun. “That was terrible. You should be ashamed of yourself.” And with that, he blasted a burst of water into the air so that the mist would rain down on Bucky, who yelped and scrambled out of the way.

“HEY! You bastard! Your ass is mine the next time I have my hose out, pal!”

He said that louder than he’d intended. Steve blushed like a beet. Bucky clapped his hand over his mouth, gray eyes wide and hoping to God that none of the neighbors heard. He failed miserably; there were Gwen and Peter across the way in May’s yard, snickering and waving.

“Right,” Bucky muttered. “On that note, g’night!”

“Night, Bucky.”

*

When Bucky reached the ER, it was uncharacteristically quiet. Clint nodded at him from the breakroom table from over the edge of a copy of _People_.

“Please tell me you’re not keeping up with the Kardashians, Barton.”

“Hey. Guy’s gotta stay current. So, yeah. It’s your turn for an LC.”

“Huh?”

“They called in a per diem tonight to cover your rig. She’s in school and still wants the hours, but she has exams the day that she was scheduled, so you guys get to trade.”

“Nice of them to call me when I’m _still home._ Bucky threw up his hands.

“Well, do you want it? I could take it,” Clint offered.

Bucky considered it for a minute. “Nah. Know what? I wouldn’t mind another night off.”

“Might as well. You’ve got a shitload of PTO stored up, and you never LC.” On cue, Bobbi Morse leaned inside the doorway, slouching against the frame. The tall blonde smiled at Bucky apologetically.

“Sorry if I’m putting you out. Those exams are my life right now. I’ve been studying like a fool for weeks. _Weeks_.”

“You’ve gotta _eat_ ,” Bucky agreed. 

“That’s nice, too,” she agreed.

“Clock out, Barnes,” Clint told him. “Skedaddle. Before they make you stay.”

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice.

He contemplated calling Tory, even though she tended to work late in the office when he was scheduled, which was fine. It wasn’t like she was pining and wiling away the hours when he had to go in to the hospital. She was independent. He saw her when he saw her. Things were fine, just… routine.

Was that the right word? They werent’ “lukewarm” yet, but it didn’t seem far off. Their evenings were a little shorter, lately. Movie dates pretty much ended once the credits rolled. Their TV nights often found them on the couch, both of them petting Bear, who adored Tory, which was fine. Bucky had been worried that his dog would be jealous of the attention Tory diverted from him, but if anything, she spoiled him more than Bucky did. It just seemed like they didn’t have quite as sharp a spark as they had before. Bucky felt distracted.

Detached.

She was still moody about Victor, which didn’t help. They could be having a copacetic chat over caesar salads, and he would text her out of nowhere about his mail, or stuff that he’d left in her (their?) apartment back when they split, and that left her strained for the rest of their meal. Just a little distant. Her light would dim down a notch. Bucky would reach for her quietly, and it would take a minute for her to completely relax against him, for the tension to drain from her muscles and for her to sigh into his chest. Bucky would tell her “I get it,” because he had exes. He had history. But he had never been _divorced_. That was a whole different ballgame, and he had no clue how to step up to the plate.

She was still a considerate lover. Those times were a little less frequent. Bucky decided that maybe Tory had a few things on her mind. Told himself that they weren’t kissing any less often. Their conversations weren’t getting shorter. Were they.

Bucky walked into his house, disappointed that Steve wasn’t in his driveway. His car stood there, gleaming amidst the puddles on the concrete. Bucky caught the hint of laundry detergent that drifted through the exhaust vent outside, but he didn’t notice any cooking smells. He wondered if Steve already ate.

Bucky put away his lunch sack, deciding his leftovers could last another day. He wasn’t in the mood for them, now that he was home with the freedom to treat himself to some junk food and had time to order out for it. Bucky called up his favorite delivery and ordered an all-meat pizza, garlic knots (just because he could), a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, and a large caesar salad. He changed into his comfy clothes, deciding that shorts and a tee sounded pretty good, didn’t it? The girl at the pizzeria gave him a forty-minute estimate. He took Bear for a twenty-minute walk. Was it being presumptuous of him to order extra food?

He contemplated whether he should have called Steve first to ask if he even _wanted_ company. But, he just seemed so… forlorn. Bucky didn’t notice any other cars in Steve’s driveway, either. He hoped that meant that he’d beaten Steve’s friend (Carol, wasn’t it?) to the punch in helping Steve find some mischief to get into. Before he could change his mind, Bucky’s feet took him up the short steps to Steve’s porch. He hesitated for a moment before he knocked, and to his surprise, the door opened before his knuckles hit the wood.

Steve. He looked sheepish, but pleased.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“That looks like pizza.”

“And sides.”

“I was checking the window to see if Libby was back yet. It’s kinda a habit.”

“I kinda figured.”

“Wanna come in?”

“That was the plan, Rogers.”

“Bless your little, sweet soul. That smells amazing. Hey, you don’t have to work after all?”

“I got an LC. Bobbi wanted my shift. I’ve got PTO hours to burn, so…” His voice trailed off. Steve’s house was spotless. He was still in his grubby clothes and barefoot, and still stepping gingerly on that left foot. “I hope you iced that foot, buddy.”

“I’ll get around to it. Sit down.” Steve reached into his pantry for paper plates and retrieved two tall glasses from the cupboard, filling them with ice without asking Bucky’s preference, since delivery soda almost always ended up arriving warm as bath water. “So, you had the night off, and you couldn’t think of a better way to spend it than visiting me?”

“Oh. Uh. Were you looking forward to spending it alone?”

“Oh. No. Not at all.” He’d been climbing the walls. When he caught sight of Bucky striding up his front walk, his stomach did a little flip of excitement, and he practically yanked the door off the hinges. Because if Steve Rogers could be called anything, it was _subtle_. “I didn’t really have any plans. And then Sharon texted me and told me that Libby could stay with her at her hotel room. They’re going to go to the pool, since Libby still has her suit, anyway. Sharon picked her up a pair of pajamas and a new outfit at the mall after dinner.”

“That’s nice.”

“Nothing makes up for only seeing your daughter a handful of times during the year like power shopping,” Steve muttered. And he sounded bitter. A sigh escaped him as he flipped open the styrofoam box of garlic knots. “Ooh. These. I love these.” 

“I’m a sucker for ‘em.”

“Do you always order this much?”

“Eh.” No. “I was just hungry.”

They tucked into the pizza, devouring it in huge, undignified bites, talking with full mouths and going through about a dozen napkins. Bucky enjoyed spending time in Steve’s kitchen. It had character with its knick-knacks and faded oven mitts and threadbare dishtowels, the “Bless Our Home” floor mat in front of the fridge nearly illegible from age. There were photo magnets of Libby on the door and old drawings of hers whose corners were curled with age that her father couldn’t bear to throw out. Steve’s counters were neat, his bill stacker almost empty; Bucky decided that Steve was better at “adulting” than he was. His counter was overrun with duplicate bill statements, not from neglect, but from paying them online or over the phone. He merely forgot to throw the statements and envelopes out.

“Is that a swear jar?” Bucky asked, nodding at the Prego jar on the windowsill full of loose change.

“Maybe,” Steve murmured, looking sheepish as he dragged a garlic knot through a puddle of ranch dressing on his plate. “I have to set an example.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m glad she didn’t hear me coming up those fucking stairs.”

“Hey! Pay up, Dad!”

“I mean, those darned stairs! Dagnabit!”

“Too late, pal.” Steve gave Bucky a disarming smile, but Bucky feigned a scolding look, quirking his brow. Steve sighed heavily, got up, grabbed his wallet off the counter, and deposited a quarter into the slot he’d cut into the lid.

“Satisfied?”

“Somebody has to keep you in check, Rogers. No telling what kinda trouble you’d get into without me.”

“Look at the trouble I’m getting into _with_ you. Pizza? Soda? You’re the worst influence ever.”

“I’m about to whip your butt at cards, too.”

Steve brightened. “We’re playing?”

“King’s corner, though. Or rummy. I play a mean game of rummy.”

“Mom and I… it was funny. I loved solitaire as a kid. It’s not supposed to be a group game, but we’d just sit there, spectating each other’s games. It was just… nice.”

“That _is_ fun. My sisters never used to let me play solitaire in peace. ‘Move that ace up, Bucky! You should have used the red queen, Bucky, now you can’t deal it out!’”

“I forgot you had sisters.”

“They still run my ranch. Just long distance,” he told Steve. “Gracie just got married a few months ago. My mom keeps asking me when it’s my turn.”

“Somebody’s gotta make you an honest man,” Steve teased.

Bucky expelled a sigh through his nose. He shrugged, and Steve realized they’d reached a sore topic.

“Doesn’t seem like that’s gonna happen any time soon.”

“Want more ice?” Steve held up the soda bottle to offer him a refill, and Bucky nodded again.

“Fill ‘er up, bud.”

“So… I’m not getting in the way of any plans you had tonight, am I?”

“Nnnnn-OPE.”

Steve ducked his face and tried to hide his smile. “Good.” He reached for another garlic knot, remembered his manners, and waited for Bucky to shake his head when he offered it to him.

They put the rest of the soda and salad into the fridge, tossed out the empty boxes, and stayed at the kitchen table to play cards. They played several rounds of king’s corner, and Steve indulged Bucky in just as many games of rummy, cutting up whenever he lost.

“I know you’re hiding cards under the table, Barnes. Fess up.”

“I can’t help it if the deck likes me,” Bucky teased. “And that you kinda suck.”

“Can it, Barnes.”

“Your turn.”

Their shenanigans devolved even further, to Go Fish. This time Steve was cackling as the cards favored him instead, and Bucky threw him his Sunday-best “I am not amused” looks every time Steve crowed that he won.

“You suck,” Bucky muttered.

“Now is that nice?” Steve scolded. Bucky flipped him off, but he was grinning.

“Get ready to get beat, buddy. I’m just getting warmed up.”

“Oh. Actually, it’s late.” Sure enough, the microwave clock flashed 10PM. 

“Wow.” And it was Thursday. Even though Libby had the day off for a three-day weekend, Steve still had an early day. “Guess we’ll have to pick this up again on my next night off.”

Steve gave him a cautious smile. “Sure, Buck.” Because his nights off were technically spoken for.

“We should make this a thing,” Bucky insisted. “Just, some kind of game and pizza night. Maybe on a night when Libby’s home. Does she like cards?”

“She beats me at poker. We play for peanuts. Beats my _socks_ off.”

“That’s my girl,” Bucky said approvingly.

His mind drifted for a moment, wondering if he could interest Steve in a game of strip poker one night when Sharon picked Libby up for dinner again. He shook it off quickly.

Steve wondered the same damned thing. But he asked, politely, “Was Tory busy tonight?”

“Oh. I. I’m not sure. She didn’t text me to suggest anything, and… that was that.”

Bucky rubbed his nape. Steve turned beet red again. 

Sharon’s words came back to him in a rush, and Steve’s stomach was doing little flips again, and his palms began to sweat. “Well, if she wants to ever come over with you-”

“Sure. That’s… that’s fine. She wouldn’t mind. Probably.”

“Okay. Um. Thanks again. For hanging out. For dinner. For coffee, earlier.”

“Any time, Rogers,” Bucky said softly. 

And it felt like the evening was drifting to a close, and Steve looked tired, Bucky reasoned, then yawned almost on cue. “Sorry,” he told Bucky. “It’s kinda been a long day.”

“I’ll get outta your hair, Stevie.”

_Stevie._

It sounded the way a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, would murmur it into the phone at the end of the night, after a date, or when planning the next one. When you didn’t want to stop talking to them, hearing their voice grow heavy, a steady, calm rasp full of promises to spend time together again, wishing they were in the room with you. Convincing you to stay up a little later.

And it was strange, feeling that odd little pull between them. Bucky’s chair scraped against the linoleum as he reluctantly eased away from the table, and the urge to just… God, to just touch Steve in some way, to thank him for a nice evening was so damned strong. It felt wrong _not_ to, and he caught a hint of hesitation as Steve nodded to him and rose, too, tucking his hands into his shorts pockets.

“I’d better go let Bear out,” Bucky suggested. “It’s late, and-”

“I’m not kicking you out,” Steve insisted, realizing that he sounded almost desperate. Just shy of babbling.

“I can kick myself out, Rogers. Don’t worry. Just get some rest, okay?”

“Thanks for taking the time to come over. I mean it. It was just, y’know, really big of you. And unexpected.”

“I saw your bare fridge, pal. You weren’t getting dinner out of that. I saw the flies come out,” Bucky teased. “Heard my voice echo in it, too.” And Steve still wanted to prolong it. Bucky unlocked his front door, and it swung open with a low, needy creak.

“My hero.”

“Hero, nothing. You owe me a wash and wax.” And that should have put them back on equal, easy footing. They were back to teasing and snark. All that was missing was a sock in the shoulder or a noogie. High-fives. Fist bumps. But Steve couldn’t muster up the nerve, because touching Bucky, even friendly, casual contact felt like such a risk, when Carol’s words kept haunting him (damn it, Carol!) and echoing in his consciousness, and when Bucky looked sexy even in his grubby clothes, and when things had been so easy between them in the quiet kitchen. And Steve grew more aware of Bucky lingering on his porch, something indecisive on written over his features. He licked his lips, and Steve’s eyes tracked the gesture, and he felt his cheeks heating up when Bucky _noticed._ His luminous, blue-gray eyes dilated, and they flitted down to Steve’s mouth, and Steve didn’t trust the way his heart hammered in his chest, with Bucky so close, not heading toward the steps, smelling like a hint of aftershave and detergent and tooth...paste.

Steve made the most embarrassing little groan of need when Bucky reached for him cupped his nape, and kissed him, making his knees buckle.


	8. I Think I 'Like Him,' Like Him...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody has some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lags between chapters. I have a bajillion open documents and I am getting costumes ready for different cons that I'm taking my family to this year. My Rose in Winter update is also kicking my butt, because I keep losing the thread of the plot. Fun times...

The kiss only lasted a few seconds, at most. Steve wanted to give himself enough credit that something so brief wouldn't turn his brain into quivering mush and rob him of all reason. But he was _kissing_ Bucky Barnes. Steve forgot his own _name_ at that point. Pleasant little shocks ran through his body at the contact - at the connection - and the kiss satisfied all of his senses at once. The low catch of Bucky's breath and barely audible groan in his throat; the taste of his mouth, salty and sweet from supper; the scent of his deodorant and shampoo, both fresh and herbal; the faint scratch of stubble along his jaw beneath Steve's palm, pulse racing just beneath it; and his skin, hot to the touch and temptingly firm. It was just a kiss.

When Bucky broke it, pushing himself back from Steve, it was jarring, even upsetting, but the worst part was the look of shock he wore, the tightness of his lips warring with the passion still darkening his eyes.

Because it was _so_ much easier to see his face in the headlights flashing at them from the driveway. Steve's stomach dropped into his shoes. He stepped back from Bucky and tucked his hands into his pockets, then waved (hesitantly) when he noticed it was Sharon and Liberty.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna just... yeah. Gotta head back, Steve-O," Bucky told him, voice stiff as his posture when he trotted down the stairs. Steve felt bereft and adrift all at once, hearing a rushing in his ears as he realized the enormity of what happened. 

Panic bells went off in his head. Bucky disappeared quickly, long legs taking him across his own lawn and into his house, front door closing with a discreet click. How much had his ex and his daughter caught of their moment? What the heck would Sharon think? The issue of Steve's preferences were something they only discussed sporadically when they were dating, and their relationship had been well-established and grounded once they got engaged. The issue of him liking both genders didn't supercede his love for his _wife_. Sharon got out of the car first, a curious expression on her face. She tipped her face toward Steve in a way that begged, _Do we need to talk?_

His face heated up. Of _course_ they saw everything. Libby got out of the car more cautiously.

"Libby forgot her medicine. It was the first thing I reminded her to pack," Sharon said, and Steve mentally coached himself that she wasn't blaming _him,_ but his face heated up with frustration, anyway. “She’s going to stay over with me tonight.”

"Then it's good that you came back," he offered, because that's what Patient Dads did. "It should be in the bathroom cabinet, kiddo."

"What'd you have for dinner?" Libby asked him, with a hint of accusation in her tone.

"Oh. Heh." Steve gave her an embarrassed grin. "I might have had pizza."

"Without _me?_ " Libby tsked as she walked past him into the house. As though Steve needed one more thing to feel guilty about. His cheeks felt staticky and hot. He kept his hands in his pockets, only removing one to nudge the door open wide for Sharon to precede him in through it, giving her a polite little nod. He ignored the barely audible huff she gave him in return as she brushed past.

Sharon didn't sit down despite Steve's silent gesture to. "I'm fine," she said aloud.

"Fine, then."

"So. That was your neighbor."

"Yeah. He's always lived there."

"Oh." Ten thousand voices in Steve's head chorused back, _Leave it alone, Sharon!_ But he kept his expression bland. "What's his name, again?"

"James. But he likes to go by Bucky."

“That’s… interesting.” She raised her brows. “How do you get ‘Bucky’ out of James?”

“Middle name’s Buchanan.”

“Ah.”

The small talk felt stilted. Libby saved the moment by coming out with her medicine bottle and handing it to her mother. “Go ahead and bring your swimsuit, kiddo. We’re going to go the water park.”

“Yessssss!” Libby fist-pumped, before realization dawned on her. “I think my suit’s still wet from today.”

“We can wash it. Don’t worry about it. Just put it in a bag. Steve, do you have a plastic bag for Libby?”

“Yeah.” Steve busied himself with heading into the kitchen and turning on the light. He opened the cupboard and found the paper shopping bag where he kept his plastic ones and took one out. “Go ahead and pack a bag, kiddo,” he called up to Libby.

“I am!” she called back as she stomped up the stairs.

“So.” Sharon had followed him into the kitchen. “You and your neighbor.”

His jaw and stomach clenched in concert.

“Not quite.”

“Not quite. What does that mean?”

“It means what it sounds like, Sharon. Do we have to talk about this?”

“Oh. Sorry.” She backed it up, realizing that maybe, just maybe, she struck a nerve. “It’s not the sort of thing you talk about?”

“Maybe not with my ex. Or my daughter, at this point.”

“That looked interesting on the porch a minute ago.”

“Sharon. Please.” Could she just _once_ cut him some slack. He handed her the plastic bag. “That’s for her suit. Are you just going to the waterpark?”

“Might hit the galleria, too, at some point. I’d like to keep her for the weekend.”

Steve stifled himself, letting his argument that he had plans for Libby for the long weekend, himself evaporate. “Okay.”

“Is that okay? You look like, maybe that isn’t okay.”

“It’s okay, Sharon. It sounds like you two are going to have fun.”

“She seemed pretty game about the mall trip, unless you-“

“It’s fine. No. The galleria. Sounds _swell._ ” He didn’t keep the edge out of his voice as well as he had hoped to; he was still smarting from being caught kissing Bucky, and oh why _oh why had he kissed Bucky, damn it, Steve!_

Sharon toyed with the bag, smoothing it between her hands. “Does Libby know about you and him?”

“There’s not much to know, but… kind of. She asked me about him one day. And she knows that he has a girlfriend, and what you saw out there isn’t the norm.”

Sharon, to her credit, deflated slightly. “Oh. Wow. That. Okay. That _sucks_ , Steve.”

Steve wasn’t expecting her sympathy. “Yeah, well. That’s life.”

“So, is he-“

“It’s not something we’ve discussed. At all.”

“Well, maybe this invites the discussion. Y’know, maybe at _some_ point.”

“Maybe when he isn’t in a relationship with someone very female.”

“She attractive?”

Steve sighed. “Very.”

“Hm.” Sharon shrugged. Then she considered something. “So… is he your type? Y’know, your _other_ type.”

“I don’t even have a ty-“

“Mom, here’s my suit,” Libby interrupted, strands of hair falling loose around her face from her trot down the stairs. Steve hushed himself, feeling another spark of heat in his cheeks. She handed her the slightly damp suit and swim shirt. “What kind of pizza did you have, Daddy?”

Steve warmed slightly at the sound of “Daddy.” He shrugged. “All meat. And garlic knots.”

“Awwwww!”

“Hey, I got you lasagna,” Sharon argued goodnaturedly. 

“Doesn’t trump all-meat pizza,” Steve claimed, just to give her a hard time. Sharon gave him a deadpan (slightly dirty) look, and Steve smiled innocently back.

“Well, we had garlic _breadsticks_ ,” Sharon told him with a huff. “And lemon mousse.”

That made Steve a little jealous. “Okay. My night didn’t include mousse. Maybe it should have.”

“Okay, Libs. We’ve got your medicine, we have your suit. Do you have your toothbrush? Hairbrush? Sunscreen?”

“I still had half that stuff in my beach bag,” Libby reminded her smugly. “I just packed it all.”

“Cell phone?” Steve reminded her.

“In my purse.”

“Okay.” Steve opened his arms, and Libby gave him a squooshy hug, making him “Oof!” on purpose, and he gave her a loud kiss in return.

“Gads, you two are sickening,” Sharon accused, but she smiled, anyway. 

“Gonna miss me, Daddy?” Libby asked as he walked them to the door.

“I’ll never recover. I’ll be _so lonely_!” Steve wailed, as dramatic as ever. He snared Libby in a more clingy hug, tucking her head under his chin, which stifled her giggles.

“Okay. Now you two are just being gross,” Sharon told them.

“You’re so needy,” Libby told him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“We’ll call you,” Sharon told him.

“Okay.” 

“Wait for me if you and Mr. Barnes are gonna have pizza again,” Libby sang over her shoulder.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure, baby.”

“G’night, Dad.”

“Night,” Sharon told him, waving backward over her shoulder without looking back.”

Leaving Steve alone with his thoughts. And to silently bang his head against the wall once he closed the door.

*

And of _course_ Bucky got a call from Ororo once he was inside his own house. To add insult to injury, Bear greet him, tail wagging and jumping all over him, sniffing him all over. Accusingly, Bucky thought, as though the dog knew something was up, too.

He hoped his voice didn’t sound as guilty as he thought. “Hey, Tory.”

“Hey. I thought I was just gonna leave you a voice mail. You’re not at work?”

“Oh. No. I got an LC.”

“Oh.” The question lingered unspoken between them of _Why didn’t you call or text me if you were off?_ “Well, that’s nice.”

“Yeah. Just decided to kick back and get a pizza.”

“Sounds fattening and wonderful. Probably just as well that I didn’t join you, then. I don’t think I need all that gluten.”

“I’m sorry, babe. You still missed out. I just got home, and it felt good to be home.”

“Oh, I know. I have a business trip coming up with my account manager. She’s not the easiest person to work with in the office, anyway. I’m going to be stuck with her on a plane to Arizona. We have a conference with our western market and some training on their state’s plan offerings. The regulations might be changing. Fun stuff. Whenever I get back from those trips, I just want my pajamas, chocolate, Netflix, and to leave my phone turned off.” Which was laughable. Tory _never_ turned her phone off.

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs, kiddo.”

“Oh, you know it. You’re jealous, right? This is me, making you all jealous?”

“ _Totally_. Green-eyed monster, right here. Picture me pouting.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll send you a selfie to prove it.”

“In a minute. I called to ask you something. I’m getting around to it, like I didn’t forget as soon as I dialed your number. Shit, the dementia is setting in already… Ooh.”

“’Ooh’?” Bucky settled back into the couch cushions, and Bear automatically crowded his lap, licking him in the nose. His dog was so spoiled.

“Ooh. Yes. That was it. Birthday party. Anna. She’s turning 35. And she’s wigging out about it. She wants to do a dinner party at that same place that we did brunch.”

“Dinner, huh?”

“Which means alcohol. Well, not just mimosas,” she clarified.

“Still sounds… kinda girly.”

“No. It’ll be couples, even though Anna is single herself.”

Bucky wavered. “What night is it, again?”

“Friday?”

“Oh. No. Shit. I’m sorry. I traded my night with our per diem. I have to take Friday.”

“Poo. Okay. I’ll go stag, then, babe. If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t. Don’t dance on the table or swing from the ceiling fan. Or have Anna take pictures if you do, because if she didn’t, then it didn’t happen.”

“Then I might tell her to put her phone away,” Ororo teased back. He heard the smug smile in her voice, and he almost - _almost_ \- wished he had called her when he got off work. But his empty house surrounded him, bringing back the memory of huddling over a pizza box in Steve’s kitchen, listening to his laugh and playing cards. Bear yawned from his lap where his face rested against Bucky’s thigh, and he reached down to scratch him behind the ears. Guilt tugged at him, and he kept rewinding to the vision of the headlights coming at them from the driveway, the slightly panicked, yet resigned look on Steve’s face when his ex and his daughter showed up. That opened another can of worms altogether, suggesting the need for a conversation that Bucky wasn’t sure of how to begin. Not without making things really, _really_ weird and awkward.

_"So, yeah. I might be bi? Well, actually, I AM bi, not just 'might be.' So... yeah. When we kissed… you seemed kinda game?”_

Another can of worms, Bucky realized miserably. 

“Just let me know when you’re off next,” Tory told him, breaking through his self-recrimination, making him realize that he had drifted into “Steve Land.”

“I will. I’ll call you when I look at the schedule again.”

“Isn’t it on your fridge?”

Because of _course_ it was.

“It might have been updated since I brought it home,” Bucky said, and he cringed a little, knowing he had to sound like he was hedging. Bear yawned and stretched again, then leapt off of his lap. 

Shit. Even his _dog_ knew he was stretching the truth.

“Okay. Well, let me know. Well, y’know what? Why don’t we just plan to hook up once I get back from Phoenix?”

Bucky brightened. “That’s fine. That way, we have a clear docket.”

“Yeah. That works. I fly out next the next Wednesday. Gives me a couple of days to recuperate from Anna’s shindig.”

“Planning to have that good a time, huh?”

“Eh. Good, but not _that_ good. She likes to whoop it up, but it’s still going to be kinda low-key. Again, it’s couples. Thirty-and-ups. Once we get past the happy hour appetizers and that first margarita, the heads will be nodding around the table.”

“No dancing?”

“Depends on if we get that far. I need to be in the right headspace for my trip, which means getting back to business completely. Can’t do that if I don’t give myself a couple of days to plan my trip after the party. Well, if you get an LC, call me up. You might catch my table dance.”

Bucky chuckled. “I can’t convince you to save it for when you come over here?”

“I would’ve. If someone had called me.”

Bucky supposed he deserved that.

“Next time.”

“Next time, then.”

“Miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

“Night, baby.”

“Good night, James.”

She rang off before he could react to being called by his formal name. That put him on edge. 

She was annoyed with him. _Great_. Ororo could be subtle. Sort of. And she was independent, but…

“Shit.”

Bucky had screwed up. Big.

He tuned into his Netflix queue and rewatched half the season of Game of Thrones. It helped. Slightly.

*

Steve’s whole week found himself throwing himself into his work and texting Libby frequently at home while she enjoyed the first week of her summer break. Whenever he called, he heard her video games, music or episodes of Family Guy playing in the background (Steve didn’t much care for that show, particularly when Libby would quote from it), and he usually came home to make or bring her lunch. He needed to distract himself from the memory of The Kiss. He and Bucky nodded to each other over the hedge, and that felt like avoidance to Steve. He kept his smile casual whenever he saw Bucky dash out the front door (because he always seemed to be in a hurry, now) in his work gear. He was a big boy. Mature. Not needy. Practical.

He wasn’t pining over Bucky like he was still in seventh grade, fer cryin’ out loud. Not at all.

He was surprised that Libby hadn’t mentioned it yet, even though she watched him sometimes, looking as though she wanted to say something important, before she reconsidered. 

Which was why he stopped arguing with himself one night to sit down with her on the couch. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said as she started another game of Minecraft.

“Can we talk for a sec?”

“Okay.”

“Can you hit pause?”

She sighed heavily before she obeyed, and she sat back against the couch. “What’s up?”

“So. We talked a while back about… things. How I loved your mother, and how if I date someone again, it isn’t off the table for me to date a man?”

“Does that mean you’re gay?”

“Well, honey, it means I like both genders.”

“Did you think about dating a man when you were married to Mom?”

They were now treading into Awkward Territory. “Not in terms of _wanting_ to while we were married. I still found men _attractive_. But I loved your mother. A lot. She was the only person I had my eye on.”

“That’s good. I guess.”

“Well, it was. Just so you know, sweetheart, that wasn’t why we got a divorce.”

The light that went on in Libby’s eyes told him that had been her next question.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“So, you like Mr. Barnes?”

“It’s complicated.” He was saying “it’s complicated” to his thirteen-year-old. How was this even Steve’s life?

“But, you like him, right?”

“Well…”

“Do you ‘like him,’ like him? I mean, you kissed him. That was a kiss.”

“It… yeah. It was,” Steve agreed.

“Looked like a kiss.”

“Oh, it was. No doubt about that. But, still. We don’t… we aren’t… dating. Okay? Just so you know.”

“You guys were _outside_.” There was a hint of scandal in her voice.

“Kind of were.” He didn’t want to think about how red his face was at that moment. Libby looked amused, which wasn’t helping.

“Is he still with Tory?”

“They’re dating still. Yeah.” And oh, did it chafe him to say that out loud. To honestly admit it to himself, not just to his daughter.

“It’s not good to kiss someone else’s boyfriend, Dad.”

“No. You’re right. It’s not.” Because this conversation just _needed to get so much more awkward, dear Lord_. “And that’s as far as it’s gone. I don’t want to give you the impression that there is anything else going on, sweetheart. I just… I felt like I owed you an explanation, if what you saw seemed unusual. Not that it’s unusual for men to kiss. Just unusual to see your dad kissing a man. It’s okay if you have questions.”

“You can talk to me, Dad,” she assured him with a shrug.

“I’m glad,” Steve told her.

“You’re a grown-up. You’re not with Mom anymore, so you can date, I guess.”

His _daughter gave him permission to date_. He huffed a laugh. “Oh, I can?”

“Probably shouldn’t kiss on the porch, though. Can I play Minecraft now?”

“Good talk. I’m gonna go make dinner.” Because he _really_ wanted to make his escape before he embarrassed himself any further. Then something else occurred to him to make him pause at the doorway. “Hey. Just because I kissed a guy on the porch, that doesn’t mean _you_ can.”

“DAD!”

“I’m the grown-up. We’ll talk about you and your first date when you turn thirty, pumpkin.”

“DAD!!! Oh, my God!” Now his daughter was beet red. So maybe he snickered under his breath on the way back to the kitchen. The subject wasn’t weighing as heavily on his chest.

But as he assembled a meatloaf and peeled potatoes to boil, he admitted to himself that yes, he “liked him,” liked him. Libby was right: It was very, very bad to kiss someone else’s boyfriend.

*

Steve wasn’t expecting the call from Tony. It startled him out of his emails, and he slid to answer after the third ring, smiling down at Tony’s contact picture, one of him a playfully horrified face when his wife, Pepper, kissed him on the cheek. He was whipped, certainly, one of Steve’s happily married friends who made him feel wistful. “Rogers,” Tony bellowed at him. “You’re coming out with us this Friday, right?”

“Us, who?”

“A few of the gang from the Philadelphia branch,” Tony told him. “Rhodey wants us to take him to Harry’s, since I keep bragging about it. Happy’s flying in with him on the same flight. It’ll be a hoot.”

“Sounds like it.” It didn’t sound horrible, he reasoned. Tony was one of his favorite account managers to work with. He’d met Happy, the Client Services Director, and Rhodey (another James in Steve’s life that never answered to his first name), an underwriter for Shield’s eastern market at a conference. 

“Will it just be you, if we kidnap you?” Tony inquired. “Or are you gonna bring along a plus-one for us to interrogate… I mean, meet?”

“No plus-one. Just little old me.”

“Eh. Not _that_ old, Rogers, but do us all a favor and leave the geriatric khakis in your closet. No one needs to see those. We’re drinking beer, not going to Hometown Buffet for the early bird’s senior special.”

“Spoilsport. They look even sharper when I hike the waist up to my armpits. Not gonna let me wear my guayabera shirt with the pleats and my no-scuff loafers? I might break a hip-“

“Don’t make me bring Pepper along to supervise you getting ready, Rogers. Seriously. PLEASE don’t make me bring Pepper. She’s the light of my life and the mother of my future offspring, but no one else is bringing their wife, either. So, no plus-one, huh?”

“Things have been quiet,” Steve murmured. 

“That sounds like something to discuss over shots,” Tony promised. “Lots of them.”

“Let me see if Libby wants to stay over at Sharon’s.” If Steve was going out with Tony, it would be prudent to ensure that Libby wasn’t waking him for breakfast first thing in the morning when he was hungover. The thought of leaving Libby alone when he was out at night also didn’t fly. Sharon wouldn’t mind a night of Red Box movies and s’mores, and to be honest, Steve needed a night off. A night with grown-ups. Well, grown-ups and Tony. 

“Friday works, then.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“No khakis. I’m hiring a limo.”

Steve felt himself get a buzz just thinking about it. “Gonna have enough left over to post bail?”

“Maybe. See you Friday, Rogers.”

*

To his credit, Steve could dress himself. It didn’t hurt to have a personal stylist under his roof who would be brutally honest about his wardrobe choices.

“Wear the blue one,” Libby nagged. “It’ll make your eyes pop.”

“Blue? You sure the beige one won’t work better with these?”

“Dad. No beige. You’ll look like you’re going to work.”

Clearly, he wore a lot of beige to work. “Got it. Blue it is.”

“Don’t wear those shoes.” He put back the black leather dress shoes and reached for the loafers. At least they weren’t anti-scuff. Libby automatically went to his drawer and retrieved a pair of black socks, handing them to him. “What’re you going to do with your hair?”

“Um. Comb it?”

“You need product,” Libby told him. “Mom just bought me some.”

“I have product,” he told her.

“No. Like, the good kind.” She hopped up off his bed and trotted down the hall. Steve was tugging on his socks when she came back, brandishing a bottle of Paul Mitchell spray gel. “Your hair needs lift.”

“Won’t that make me look too young?” Or like he belonged in a boy band?

“That’s the point, Dad.”

“Are you calling your old man ‘old?’”

“Uh-huh.”

Steve reached over and swatted her with a pillow. She giggled without mercy. Steve put on the short-sleeved, fitted, button-down polo, and he admitted to himself that it did bring out his eyes. Libby leaned against the bathroom doorway while he lathered up his face to shave.

“Where are you guys going?”

“Harry’s. Just meeting a few guys that work at Shield’s other branch.”

“That’s cool.”

“It kind of is.”

“You don’t go out much.”

“I kind of don’t.” He scrubbed shaving foam into his stubble with his cupped fingers and rinsed his razor, tapping it against the edge of the sink. 

“Mom does.”

He paused in his first stroke along the underside of his jaw. “That’s… nice for Mom.”

“He stopped by that day after we went to the galleria.”

“Did he?”

“He wore a lot of cologne.”

“Oh.”

“He’s kind of nice.”

“Good.”

“His name’s Scott. His daughter is younger than me.”

“Hm.” 

“He works in pest control.”

“Pays the bills.”

“He doesn’t have any pets.”

“He might not have the time for one.” Especially if he was a single dad, Steve didn’t add.

“I wish Mom would date a guy with a dog,” Libby mused. Steve huffed as he whisked his left cheek clean, tapping off the stubble and foam against the basin.

“Bet you do.”

“Bucky has a dog,” Libby purred. 

Steve eyed her in the mirror and saw that she was smiling knowingly. “Yes, he does.”

“He’s well behaved,” she reminded him. “Y’know. If you wanted to have Bucky over, and let him bring Bear over.”

Steve hissed, just stopping himself from cursing as he nicked himself. The acidic foam leaked into the tiny wound, and he splashed some cool water from the tap to rinse it off. “Bucky’s busy, kiddo. And he has a girlfriend that might want to spend time with him and Bear.”

Libby sighed. “Fine.”

“Kiddo, can you hand me that gel?” He blotted his cut with a Kleenex while she went to get it.

“Give your hair some lift,” she reminded him.

“Will this make me look like Bieber?”

“Ew. No.”

Libby went to pack her bag for Sharon’s, and Steve finished getting himself ready. He heard his phone buzz and saw Tony’s text.

_No old man khakis?_

Steve grinned, texting back _My daughter wouldn’t let me anywhere near them. Don’t worry._

Steve huffed at his return message. _I’m buying her a pony._

“Please don’t,” Steve muttered aloud. Because he _could_.

Steve checked on Libby, who was packing one of her _Divergent_ books into her duffle along with her iPod and cosmetics bag. She had already changed into her flannel pajama pants, her mock Uggs, and a pink hoodie. “Very elegant,” Steve told her.

“Mom already went to the store. Dad, your cut’s still bleeding.” Steve made a sound of annoyance and went back to blot it again and daub on some liquid bandage. Sharon showed up minutes later and honked the horn. “Toothbrush? Meds?” Steve grilled.

“I packed them!”

“Sure?”

“I did. G’night, Daddy. I love you.” She kissed him on his good cheek. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“I… okay. I won’t. I’m not,” he assured her, even though it was up in the air. “Love you too, Libs.”

He waved to Sharon from the porch, and she blinked her high beams at him before Libby got in, tossing her bag into the back seat. She waved like a maniac as they drove off, and Steve’s stomach knotted with anticipation, because it felt so weird to have a night of freedom, except, now he wondered if he wanted it anymore.

He wondered what Bucky was doing.

*

“Watch for my text, Robinson,” Tony told the chauffeur.

“Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“You clean up nice,” Tony told Steve.

“Even used a little product,” Rhodey noticed. “Let us know if we’re cramping your style, Steve. Leave a sock on the doorknob.”

“No sock,” Steve promised.

“You _did_ try a little harder than I’m used to seeing from you, Rogers.” Tony looked impressed. A little less ‘Sexy Grandpa,’ a little more ‘Hipster Mid-Life Crisis Uncle.’ It works on you.”

“Thanks,” Steve deadpanned. “Less compliments. More alcohol.”

“I heard that!” Happy flagged down the bartender, and as promised, Tony bought them a round of shots. The Jameson burned going down, warming Steve’s chest. Before he could recover from it, Tony beckoned to the waitress to stay a moment longer.

“Another round before you walk away, darlin’. Keep the change.”

“Who’s up for darts?” Rhodey asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Let’s play now, then, while I can still see straight,” Happy suggested as their next round arrived. The first shot of Jameson thankfully numbed Steve’s tongue a little; the second one made him gag less, but he still shook his head to stave off the ringing feeling. 

“How old are you, Rogers? Twelve? Were you like this when your friends would sneak their parents’ liquor out of the cabinet and share it in the school parking lot?” Tony pressed.

“Please don’t plant that thought in my head, Stark. And don’t let Libby hear you say that, or I’ll have to kill you. Pepper will never find your body.”

“Shit. That’s right. You have a _teenager_.”

“A _daughter_ ,” Happy specified.

“Get the shotgun,” Rhodey said.

“It’s in the closet with the coats,” Steve shot back, only half kidding.

“What’s going on with Sharon?” Happy asked.

“Nothing new. Things are still pretty awkward.”

“Divorce isn’t one of those things that ages like fine wine,” Tony said with the wisdom of three prior marriages. Pepper was the charm. “Neither did my exes,” he added with a mean snicker. Steve gave him his Sunday-best deadpan look. “What? It’s true!”

“I needed a night out. And we don’t have to talk about Sharon.” Or about how she had caught him in a clinch with his hot neighbor. Because that would lead to more questions about Hot Neighbor. 

They made it to the dart board and switched to beer, much to Tony’s disappointment. The bar was packed to the rafters, bodies buffeting against them as more patrons swarmed to the bar. Steve noticed a familiar face behind it and nodded a greeting when he caught Logan’s eye. The short, stocky bartender was carrying another tray of clean beer glasses to the counter, and he smirked at Steve.

“Rogers! Where ya been hiding yerself?” he called out, bellowing over the cacophony. Steve chuckled and excused himself from his friends to go chat.

“In the office. In meetings. The usual.”

“Yer gonna be my competition pretty soon, then.”

“What?”

“I passed my tests and got my certification. Yer lookin’ at the newest broker for OptforWellth’s eastern market. I’m moving to Boston soon to be closer to my pop. He hasn’t been managing too well since Mom passed.”

“I’m sorry. You have my condolences, Jim.” Steve gave him a firm handshake and leaned over the bar to clap him on the shoulder. “I remember having the nicest talk with her at your wedding. She was a sweetheart.”

“She was,” Logan agreed.

“How’s Jeannie?”

“Red’s fine. I had to work this weekend. She’s at Gayle’s for her son Joey’s birthday.”

“Nice.”

“How old is Libby, now?”

“Fourteen.”

Logan shook his head and smirked. “Ouch.”

“I know.”

“Got a shotgun?”

“Hall closet.” Still half kidding, still wishful thinking. Steve whipped out his phone, because he was just that much of a sap, and he thumbed through his photo gallery while Logan wiped down his counter and took an order for a tray of lemon drop martinis. Logan leaned down and grinned at the screen.

“Jesus, she’s cute. Thank God she doesn’t look like her dad.”

“Har-de-har. Fucker.”

“You’re a lucky man, Rogers.”

“Yeah.” Before Steve could add anything else, he heard a lilting, feminine voice by his elbow.

“Excuse me, can Ah open a tab, sugah?” asked a curvy, auburn-haired woman in snug jeans and a cropped green halter top. 

“Soon as this big lug moves outta yer way, darlin’. Whaddya feel like havin’?”

“Round of five beers for my ladies at table six,” she drawled before smiling up at Steve. “Hi, shoog. Come here often?”

“He’s the dad of a teenager, darlin’. Not even likely,” Logan interjected, and Steve shot him a mock glare.

“Guess not, then,” she shrugged. She fished a debit card out of her very snug pocket and handed it over, and Logan scanned it in at his register.

“There ya go, darlin’.” Logan gave the order to the server, and Steve took that as his cue to go. Tony, Rhodey and Happy were signaling to him that it was his turn to throw.

“Later, Logan.”

“I’ll tell Jeannie I saw ya out and said hi.”

But before Steve could leave, a slender hand stopped him. He glanced back at the woman who opened the tab.

“Ah think we’ve met. Sort of. Mah friend Tory is dating your friend. Ah think.” She looked like she was trying to place Steve. “Remember that brunch a little while back?”

“Oh.” Steve searched his memory and came up almost blank. “Wait. Tory? Bucky’s Tory?”

Her green eyes lit up. “Yeah! There ya go, sugah! Ah knew Ah recognized you! So. Where’s that sweet thing ya had on yer arm the last time Ah saw you?”

Steve went beet red. “Oh. No. We’re not… it was a blind date, but we’re just friends.”

“Aw. Shame. Two of ya were awful cute together. Like Barbie and Ken.” Steve couldn’t tell if that was meant to be a compliment or not. “That’s all right, shoog. Other fish in the sea.”

“I’m, uh, gonna go play some darts,” Steve offered, needing to make his escape. Tory had some _nosy_ friends.

“That’s fine. Gotta get back to mah group. G’wan ahead and wave over there, Ken.”

“Steve,” he corrected, until he remembered her barb. (He was going to be groaning to himself all night long about that, when he thought back on this encounter at Harry’s. Honestly.) He obediently waved, and sure enough, he saw Tory – Ororo, rather – waving at him with an odd smile on her face. He hustled back to the dart board, and Tony was grinning widely at him.

“Rogers, you dog! You’ve still got it! Tell me you got her number, or the numbers of _any_ of her friends at that table! Did you _see_ them? I’m happily hitched, but I’ve gotta live vicariously through my single friends.”

“You can live that way through me,” Rhodey claimed, looking offended.

“Nice try,” Tony told him.

“The one that spoke to me was a little too young. And not all that subtle.” She made him feel like she knew what color underwear he was wearing, the way she stared and prodded him. “And the tall one at the table is already taken. I don’t know the deal with the rest of them.”

“The tall one? Wait… oh. Wow. Oh, wow.” Rhodey whistled. “And you said she’s _taken_?”

“She’s dating my equally hot neighbor. Sorry, buddy.” 

“Equally hot… wait. What?” Rhodey squinted. “Hot, as in… female?” Steve watched him stare at Tory, the possibilities romping through his head.

“No. Not female.”

Tony narrowed his eyes, pointing at Steve with his shot glass. “Ah. Hold on. Back when we hung out in the dorms… that’s right. I remember you were sweet on that guy. Jean-Claude?”

“Jean-Paul.”

“So. Playing field’s open. You’re still fine playing with either team?”

Steve shrugged and took a handful of blue-tipped darts from Happy, shooting the first one and landing an inch from the center of the board. “I just like who I like.”

“So, what you’re telling us is, you like your hot neighbor.” Tony waggled his eyebrows.

“Maybe I’m not telling you that _directly_. I wasn’t planning on even broaching the subject-“

“It’s been broached,” Happy pointed out.

“That, it has,” Tony added, with a hint of glee dancing in his eyes. “Steve broached the subject, didn’t he, Rhodes?”

“Sounded like he did,” Rhodey agreed. “But that tall drink of water over there is really dating your neighbor?”

“Has been for a while,” Steve confirmed.

“World’s too cruel. That _fine_ creature over there’s taken. He gets to wrap those legs around his waist?”

“Rhodes. Don’t be gauche,” Steve complained, frowning.

“Sorry. I’m just jealous. That’s an _injustice_.”

They took another turn at the dartboard, and Steve was winning, despite the distraction of seeing Bucky’s girlfriend across the room. She was definitely dressed for a night out, wearing a scandalously short black dress with a halter neckline, gold bangles laddered up her wrists, and chandelier earrings that flattered the long, graceful line of her neck. Her hair was pulled back into a snug chignon with long tendrils hanging loose around her face. Her toned legs looked a mile long in the cruel stiletto sandals on her feet. He watched the girls enjoying their beers; Ororo was the only one who ordered a Corona, and she squeezed a wedge of lime into the open neck. Steve watched a man in a snug tee and skinny jeans approach and tap her shoulder, nodding toward the dance floor. Steve saw her smile briefly, shake her head and mouth _no, thank you_ at him before going back to her beer. To the guy’s credit, he didn’t make the rounds of the table to see if there were any other takers. He just moved on. Some bitter little voice inside him complained that Steve had to give Tory credit, too, for not stepping out onto the floor with someone who wasn’t Bucky. No strikes against her, so far. 

“When’s the last time you played the field, anyway, Steve?” Tony pried.

“Blind date. It didn’t lead anywhere. She’s a better bowler than me, though, so. It wasn’t a wasted afternoon.”

“That’s sad. I mean, look at you, Steve,” Happy opined. “You’re this perfect looking, beefcakey specimen of manliness, and you’re settling for blind dates?”

“Not so much as a hookup?” Rhodey added hopefully.

“Nope. Too busy.”

“Too busy pining for Hot Neighbor,” Tony guessed.

“I’m not… pining.”

“You’re not ‘not’ pining,” Tony said.

“No. I’m not…”

Shit. Steve _was_ pining.

They played a few rounds of darts, then pool. Tony suckered them all and cleared the table twice. By his fourth shot glass, Steve was less buzzed, more numb, and he longed to just strip down to his boxers and crawl into bed. Once in a while, he saw Tory up dancing with her friends. Steve remembered back to Pete and Gwen’s wedding, how well she and Bucky could cut a rug together. How easily they moved, as though they had always done it. Steve couldn’t dance. Even if Bucky wasn’t taken, he wondered if that would be a dealbreaker. 

Not that it mattered. He _was_ taken, and Tory was a good fit for him. Smooth, polished, professional, attractive, and they had chemistry.

The kiss haunted him. Steve wanted it to be so much more.

*

He returned home to an empty, dark house, grateful for the privacy. Bucky’s driveway was empty next door, easily explaining why Tory was out with her girlfriends instead. Steve locked up, kicked off his shoes and dragged himself upstairs. He chucked his shirt and slacks in the general direction of the hamper, where the sleeves and legs sprawled down over the wicker sides, as though even his clothes had partied too hearty. He peeled off his socks, went to the bathroom to swish out his mouth with some Listerine, then popped two Advil and chased them down with a glass of water. Then he approached the commode and relieved himself, giving back the alcohol that he’d borrowed. Now that his buzz was gone, he was left with the noise in his head from the crowd, from the pounding music, and all of the voices chanting inside him that what happened between him and Bucky was a fluke. _He’ll never be yours. You blew it, Steve._

He slapped off the wall switch and flopped into bed. He still saw the crowd behind his eyes when he closed them, and Bucky’s face after the kiss, panicked and uncertain, but not unaffected. Lips puffy and eyes dilated with want.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of his phone buzzing from the dresser. “The hell…?” he muttered. It couldn’t be Tony. The chauffeur dropped him home, and Tony promised him they would eat a waffle at Denny’s in Steve’s honor. Not that Steve would put it past Tony to drunk-dial him, but-

_Bucky._

His vision was blurry in the dark as he swiped the screen to read the message.

_Steve? I know it’s late._

Steve’s breath caught as the typing bubble began flashing, because _Bucky wanted to talk to him._

_Whenever you get this… maybe tomorrow, or whenever, we need to talk._


	9. Sweet on the Boy Next Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk. It gets weird. 
> 
> Hedging. Truth bombs. Awkwardness. Frustration. Teenagers being teenagers. And having what you want dangled in front of your nose like a carrot.
> 
> Steve is so _done_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lags. Too many open stories, no free time, my kids keep hogging my laptop, and I’m just a mess in general. Thanks for the comments and love that you have given this story, and some of my others. It’s been fun to hear your take on the situations I’ve scribbled for these guys.
> 
> Not too many chapters more, at this point. This still ties in to my RoLo story (Ororo/Logan) called “Getaway” that I have here and out on the RoLo Realm. You don’t have to read that one to enjoy this one, but if you like Ororo the way I have her written here, she is still her feisty self in that one, too.

_Whenever you get this… maybe tomorrow, or whenever, we need to talk._  
Steve was tired, and he was having a hard time making his fingers work in the dark, staring blearily down at the little screen.

_I’m home. I’m up._

Because that didn’t sound desperate at _all_ at that hour of the night. Steve knew Bucky was awake, but he wondered how desperate he would look, sending back a text right now. Shit. Bucky was at work. He could be in an ambulance rig, driving, or giving somebody O2 or pulling someone out of a wrecked car…

Shit, shit, shit.

Steve scrubbed his face. The timestamp on the message was over an hour old. What if that was Bucky’s only break for the night? Maybe he wouldn’t hear from him until morning. Well, later in the morning, since Steve’s phone and clock told him it was after one AM. Geez. 

But the phone screen bubbled at him again, and Steve’s stomach clenched.

_Hey. You’re really up? I didn’t wake you?_

_No. You didn’t. I just got back._

More bubbles, then _Where did you go?_

Steve huffed. He almost hated texting, when he couldn’t see the other person’s face and mannerisms, or couldn’t hear their voice like he could with a phone call. Still, at least Bucky had caught him. At least with a text, you could put a person on hold for a while without asking “Where were we?” when you got back. _Harry’s._

The bubbles paused, then started up again. _Wow. Did you see Tory? She said she ended up there, too._

“I did,” Steve said aloud as he typed. “She looked… nice.” Hotter than a firecracker, slickly beautiful and hammering home the fact that Steve wasn’t anywhere near in Bucky’s league.

That earned him some shocked/scared emojis. _Should I be scared, then???_

Steve chuckled. “Maybe, pal. I don’t know.” He kept mis-typing and doing it over, because he was so tired, but it was still nice to talk to Bucky in the dark. 

Before he could think of anymore smartassed comments, his phone vibrated in his hand, and Bucky’s contact photo flashed across his screen. Steve had snapped it quickly at Peter’s wedding reception, wanting to catch him in the sharp suit. He had been laughing at something Gwen muttered in his ear while he hugged the bride, and Steve caught the shot as he stood back, folding his arms and listening intently. He was adorable and made coherent thought difficult when he smiled like that, soft and warm with those little crinkles that appeared around his eyes.

Steve saw the screen and almost dropped his phone in his effort to swipe the screen before it stopped ringing. “Hey… Bucky… gimme a sec. Hey.”

“Hey, Rogers.” Bucky’s voice sounded amused, and there were night sounds in the background. “What are you up to?”

“Getting ready for bed, Buck.”

“God… sorry. Right. It’s weird talking to you right now.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, chuckling and rubbing his nape. “So. How’s work?”

“Taking a little break. Only had one trauma call tonight so far. Wasn’t too bad.”

“Wasn’t too bad” could mean a guy falling off a ladder or someone getting stabbed in the gut. Steve was beginning to grow more fluent in Bucky-ese. He admired him for being able to do that job.

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

“You don’t know the half of it, buddy.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting you right now from… anything.”

“Just lunch. Dinner, I mean. You know what I mean.” Steve smiled. “Nat and I went to a taco truck.”

“Sounds good. I skipped out on Denny’s.”

“Just as well. It sucks. And it’s overpriced.”

“Sometimes, I just feel like a French Toast Slam.”

“I don’t want it to sound like I’m judging you, Steve… but, yeah. I’m totally judging you. Don’t eat that crap!”

“Says the man who right this minute is eating ptomaine tacos.”

“Ooooooooh. You actually went there.”

“Yes, I did. And I have a round-trip ticket.”

Bucky snickered, and Steve heard the crinkle of what sounded like tin foil in the background, and a feminine voice asking, _Who are you talking to?_ “Steve,” Bucky replied, sounding like he was turning away from his phone’s speaker. “Nat says hi.”’

“Hi back,” Steve muttered into the dark.

“Hi back, Natasha. Okay. Everyone’s said hi. So. Anyway. I wasn’t expecting you to get back to me until tomorrow morning.”

“This a bad time?”

“Not bad. Just not ideal.”

“Right. Listen, I’ll let you get back to your guacamole and indigestion.” 

“Don’t hurt the tacos’ feelings, Steve.”

“Stay safe. Have a good night’s work. Tell Nat, too.”

“Sure will.”

“ _Thanks, Steve!_ ” That was Nat, voice a garbled shout through a mouthful of hot burrito. 

“You’re welcome,” he called back, knowing he sounded ridiculous and still tipsy.

“Text me, maybe.”

“Maybe. Or something.”

_Or something._

“Bye.”

“Night.”

 

Steve thunked his phone down onto the side table and flopped back onto his mattress with a groan. “Errrrggghhh. Whyyyyyyyy? Why, Lord?”

Why, indeed…

*

“So. What’s up with Steve?” Natasha peered up at Bucky through her lashes as she took another bite of burrito. 

“Nothing much.”

“He texts you at night, now?”

“I texted him first. It’s no big deal. He was just being polite.”

“Sure he was, Barnes.”

“Shut up and eat your burrito.”

*

Steve didn’t remember when he fell asleep, finally tuning out the noise in his head, mulling his brief talk with Bucky. He had to think Steve was so desperate. Steve felt like absolute trash over the impression he had to have made. _Not bad. Just not ideal._ So that meant they had to delay their talk that much longer. Steve vacillated between butterflies and dread when he finally got up and around. His mouth tasted horrible, pasty and like flies would dart out of it when he exhaled. He took his sweet time brushing his teeth and making faces at himself in the mirror. He had a pillow crease in his cheek and dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were a little puffy from overindulging the night before. “Look like a million bucks, Rogers,” he muttered at himself. He wasn’t quite ready to face the world yet. Steve padded downstairs in his PJ bottoms and an undershirt for the sake of decency and began to make himself some eggs.

Sharon would bring Libby back soon, and Steve wanted to tidy up the house and round up a couple of laundry loads before Sharon called. The house was actually pretty clean, except for the whirlwind of discarded clothes and grooming products he’d left in his bedroom and master bath the night before. Steve yawned as he fumbled with the bread, cramming a slice into the toaster and rummaging in the fridge for the eggs and the bottle of ketchup. Sharon used to hate watching him eat eggs, yet she ate hers over-easy and runny, so they were even. 

He just scraped the eggs out of the pan onto his plate when he heard a low, familiar knock on the front door. It was too early to be Sharon…

He hurried to the door, stopped short for a moment to calm his breathing, then opened the door.

There was Bucky. Still in his work uniform and boots and badge, holding a coffee drink carrier with two ventis. “This a bad time?”

“No. Perfect timing.” Bucky looked bedraggled but gorgeous, eyes as bloodshot and droopy as Steve’s, and stray hairs were escaping his ponytail. Steve stepped aside to let him in, and Bucky handed him the latte before setting the carrier on the coffee table. He quickly bent to unlace his boots and shuck them, setting them by the door so he wasn’t stomping across Steve’s floors in them, and he groaned in relief, wiggling his toes in his socks.

“That feels good. Been on my feet all night.”

“Hungry?”

“Whatever you made smells good.”

“I can make more?”

“That’s… yeah. That’s fine.” Bucky rubbed his nape. “In the kitchen?”

“Yeah. C’mon.” He beckoned him inside and waved him over to the dinette. Bucky pulled out his chair and slumped into it with a huffy little sigh.

“Eeerrrrgggghh…”

“Bad night?”

“I think you jinxed me, Rogers. As soon as we got off the phone, all the weirdos came out. I made three more runs. A bar fight that went bad, a heart attack and a domestic tiff.”

“Wow. Sorry I threw off your mojo.”

“Yeah, well, you should be, pal.” Bucky smirked at him as he sipped his coffee and watched Steve crack more eggs, then made a noise of protest when Steve set his own plate down in front of Bucky. “You don’t have to do that!”

“Shut up and dig in. Hurry up and eat it while it’s still warm. You look like you’re gonna fall over, Buck.”

“I’m fine. I have to walk Bear in a bit before I hit the sack.”

“Then hurry up and eat.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nag, nag, nag.” He took a bite of eggs. “This is good.”

“Good.” Steve turned back to the stove, and a pleased little smile curled his lips.

“Where’s the Libster?”

“With her mom. They haven’t called me quite yet.”

“So. You went out last night.”

“Yeah. Hit the bars with my friends. We do that every once in a blue moon. And it reminds me that I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

“Felt old, huh?”

“Ancient.”

“Ugh…”

“Felt like yelling ‘You kids get off of my lawn!’ as soon as we got there.”

“Were you dressed like everybody’s grandpa?”

“I’ll have you know that no, I was _not_ ,” Steve told him with a haughty tone. “Libby gave me her sternest and most exacting inspection before I left. She’s an authority on men’s fashion, apparently.”

“Teenage girls can be cruel,” Bucky agreed. “But your little girl has good taste. You were in capable hands, Rogers.”

“Yeah. I am.” Steve chuckled and went back to stirring his eggs. Moments later, he was drizzling his eggs with ketchup and laving a piece of toast with strawberry jam. They ate in companionable silence for a while, enjoying their drinks (Bucky’s was actually chamomile tea, Steve learned) and the peace and quiet.

“So. Yeah, I saw Tory out last night.”

Bucky gave him a wan smile and tugged on his hair. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah. It was. She said hi for a minute. Looked like she was having a good time with her friends.” Steve wanted to give Ororo a good report card, for some reason. “She was just holding court and having a beer.”

“No hanging from the chandelier? I told her to have her girlfriends take pictures if she did,” Bucky teased.

“Nope. Pretty low-key.”

“She usually is,” Bucky murmured.

“You guys doing pretty good?” Steve inquired, even though he _really didn’t want to know_.

“We’re doing all right.”

Bucky didn’t know why, in that moment, he didn’t give his relationship better press than that. Or why his own voice sounded so resigned.

“That’s… good.”

“It is. Pretty much.”

Why did that stir hope in Steve’s chest?

“So, we said we’d talk.”

“Yeah. About that. About _before_.” Bucky scrubbed his face and stared down into his empty plate. “We need to discuss what happened on the porch.”

“I didn’t… I don’t do that… I mean, I’ve _done_ that. But not… with people… with men who are already dating. I don’t… what I’m saying is, I like… both. Men and women.”

“You’re bi,” Bucky confirmed.

“Yes.”

“Your wife knew?”

“Yes. That wasn’t what broke us up, but yes.”

“You’re sure?”

Steve frowned.

“She didn’t have her concerns?”

“She never said she did. She didn’t act like it. We were pretty straight with each other.”

“If you were ‘straight’ with her, then there was no conflict.”

“That was awful…” Steve made a disgruntled noise and shook his head.

“Sorry.” But Bucky’s expression teased, _Not sorry_ despite his claim.

“But that wasn’t why she left. Sharon had issues with postpartum depression. And there were other things she needed to deal with. She wasn’t in a good place.”

“But she is now?”

“Yeah. We still butt heads once in a while, but it’s better. We did the right thing when we split up. We both needed time to work on ourselves and figure out what we wanted. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard. Or that it didn’t hurt.”

“I bet,” Bucky said softly. “I’m bi, too. Realized it when I was still a kid. The topic hasn’t really come up yet between me and Tory. Not in a real conversation, anyway.”

“What does that even mean?” Steve asked, leaning back and folding his arms across his stomach.

“I get the impression she already suspects it about me.”

“Why would she, d’you think?”

“Because… maybe she noticed the way I look at you.”

Steve’s face heated up, and the flush spread all the way down to his chest.

“Uh…”

“Yeah. It’s…” Bucky laughed, and the sound was raw. “I’m not good at keeping what I’m feeling off of my face, apparently. I’ve been told that before.” He sighed, and he folded his arms too as he watched Steve. “I _do_ look at you, Rogers. I see you. And that makes this really hard.”

“Why is it hard?” Steve’s voice was gritty and dry, and his heart was stuttering, pulse racing. He felt an odd pounding in his temples and a chill rush over his skin.

“Because I like what I see too damned much,” Bucky murmured, and there was something bleak in his eyes, a look of missed opportunity. Of regret.

Steve heard a door slam between them.

“I’m dating Tory.”

“I know. And I won’t get in the way of that.”

“I know you won’t. Because you don’t make waves or trouble, Rogers.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, staring down at his flannel-clad lap.

“It’s not like you were the only one doing the kissing,” Bucky continued.

At least they could shoo that particular elephant out of the room.

“I was out of bounds.”

“Not as much as I was,” Bucky argued. “Look… it wasn’t supposed to happen. Not on my part. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have disrespected my girlfriend like that.” He leaned forward against the table. “Or you.”

“It only would have been disrespectful if I didn’t want it,” Steve told him. Bucky shook his head, but Steve pressed on. “I won’t lie to you. I wanted it. Even though it was wrong. It was wrong because you were with someone else, Bucky. I get that, and I agree. But it wasn’t wrong for me not wanting you to kiss me, because I’ve wanted to from the moment you mowed my lawn. And… when you helped my daughter make cookies, and stayed with her when she got hurt. And when you carpooled her to school and always remembered her birthdays and let her play with your goofy dog. Bucky, there’s been so many times where I’ve wanted to kiss you. And if you wish you hadn’t done it, then that’s fine. It never happened. If that helps you to move on and for the two of us to remember our boundaries, then so be it. I don’t want things to get ‘weird.’ Not between us. It’s always been easy between us up til now. It’s always easy with you, and I don’t want to lose that.” And Steve knew he had said too much. His heart was still stuttering and his palms began to sweat. 

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, thank God. Rogers, I was scared shitless you were gonna tell me we wouldn’t be able to be friends anymore after this.” He didn’t add that Steve’s confession _just scared him half to fucking death._

Steve felt a bitter pang. “Uh-uh. Never.” He shook his head emphatically. “That’s not on the table.”

“Good.” Because Bucky’s heart was pounding with the too-real fear that Steve would show him the door and tell him not to let it hit him in the ass on the way out. “I still need someone to watch Ink Master with.” And he needed him in his life, for so many other reasons, even through platonic means.

Steve laughed, even though he felt hollow.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’m sorry if I sent out… signals.”

“You didn’t. Maybe… I just… saw what I wanted to see, and got the wrong idea.”

Bucky looked like he wanted to say something else, then shook off the urge. He got up instead and cleared his plate.

“She’s nice. I know my opinion doesn’t matter, Buck, but… she’s really nice. I hope things work out.” And Steve was fine leaving it there. With putting it to bed. Saying the right things for the greater good. With not giving Tory reason to distrust or resent him or doubt Bucky.

“They either will, or they won’t. I care about Tory. I don’t want to hurt her.” Bucky sighed. “Thanks for giving me that space.”

Steve gave him a crooked smile, shrugging. “’Course, Buck.”

He felt so damned raw inside.

And it was so much worse when Bucky rose from the table, hesitating, then resigned. “I’m beat.”

“Go ahead and turn in.”

“Still gotta walk the dog.”

“Take it easy, anyway.”

“Sure. Thanks, Steve-O.”

Steve let Bucky precede him by several paces as he followed him to the front door, wanting to respect his invisible bubble. His body was drawn to Bucky’s, still branded with the imprint of his touch. If things were different between them, Steve would have hugged him close as soon as he came through his door, helped him shuck his gear, and crawled into bed with him after tucking him in. He looked strong and exhausted, sturdy, comforting… sad. It took all of his reserve not to reach for him. Steve folded his arms and saw him out.

“See you.”

“Later, Rogers.

*

Libby came home with some new makeup that he wasn’t exactly crazy about and a chest cold.

“I told her not to sleep with the fan turned right on her face,” Sharon told him, apologetic and frustrated, but that didn’t help Steve’s mood.

“Did you have her sinus medicine packed?”

“I didn’t think she’d need it. But I gave her some decongestant to start to dry it up on the way out the door.” Libby sounded stuffy and had puffy eyes and a red nose when she slumped against Steve in something resembling a hug.

“How you feel, baby girl?”

“Nnnngh.” The sound was mewing and pitiful and made Steve feel like a trash human being. Judging from Sharon’s expression and the set of her shoulders, the feeling was shared. He set the Claire’s and CVS bags on the dining table and murmured to his daughter that she should go lie down. Instead of going upstairs, Libby flopped on the couch, kicked off her Uggs, and went fetal, long blonde hair falling into her flushed face.

“You look like you had a wild night.”

“It wasn’t remarkable.”

"Those bags under your eyes say different."

“The bags under my eyes are Louis Vuitton.”

“Ha, ha. Cute.”

“I’m adorable,” Steve corrected her. “When did Libby start feeling bad?”

“She woke up sounding like she swallowed a frog. It’s just really starting to set in.”

“M’tryin’ t’sleep,” Libby growled from the couch.

“Excuuuuuse _me_ ,” Steve groused back, feigning hurt. “Want me to peel you a grape, Your Highness?”

“Right. On that note…” Sharon looked like she was about to leave, but then she remembered something. “Ooh. Check.”

Steve’s brows lifted in surprise. She actually remembered the child support check without him reminding her, for a change, which was nice. Sharon dug in her purse and pulled out her long wallet, walking it to the coffee table. Her long blond hair curtained her face as she bent forward and began writing it out with an enameled pen, signing it with her usual little flourishes. She handed it to Steve and smiled. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“In today’s economy?” he deadpanned.

“Well… okay. Point made.”

“Text me with your plans for next time.”

“I’m going to a concert next week with a friend. The weekend after that, I’m open.”

“Sounds good.” Because that was another weekend for Steve to take a little break. He had a business trip planned to Cambridge that week and wasn’t looking forward to four days of meetings, a cramped plane, and trying to cobble together breakfast in a Residence Inn. Sharon was going to take Libby for those days, but he wouldn’t have time to catch his breath over the weekend. Time to himself was at a premium.

Sharon made to leave again, stooping down by Libby on the couch to kiss her temple. Libby leaned up and kissed her mother back, just a fleeting peck before she rolled back in toward the back cushion. “See you, baby girl. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she murmured, waving her off. Sharon huffed a laugh.

“Okay. I’ll text you,” she told Steve.

“Um. I’ll walk you out.”

“O. Kay.” Sharon’s brows drew together. Steve ushered her out the front door and pulled the door lightly shut. He followed her to her car and leaned his backside against the hood. 

“Okay. So. It came up in conversation… I don’t even know how to ask this. Sharon, back when we were married… did it bother you? I mean, about me, when we met? That I liked men, too?”

Sharon folded her arms. “We talked about it,” she reminded him. “You were up front about it.”

“I know. But… were you okay with it?”

“Why do you want to know all of the sudden?”

“I’m just curious. Maybe it’ll be constructive to know?”

“Constructive, huh?” She planted one hand on her hip and rubbed her nape. “Well, sometimes I wondered if you were getting what you wanted out of the relationship. I knew you loved me. But I sometimes wondered if you noticed other people.” 

“If I noticed men.”

“Yeah. ‘Other people’ encompasses men, in this case. Not limited to men, mind you. I always got that.”

“I loved you, though.”

“Sweetie, I know.”

“Did I ever make you feel like you weren’t enough?”

Sharon folded her arms. “Where is this coming from? This is a talk you want to have _now_?”

Steve sighed and scrubbed his face with his palm. 

“The only thing that made me feel like I ‘wasn’t enough’ was having a baby. I felt like… sometimes, maybe you didn’t feel like I was helping you enough with her. Like maybe you had this preconceived idea of what a mom was supposed to do. I felt like I didn’t measure up.”

“I wasn’t holding up a yard stick.”

“Sometimes it felt like you were,” Sharon confessed.

Steve’s shoulders slumped.

“Wow.”

“And I was depressed, Steve. Just… she was our baby. She needed so much care. I was overwhelmed, and you were a trooper. Always plugging away and trying to assure me that we could handle everything that she needed.” Sharon shrugged. “You were better at being the mom.”

Steve shook his head. “Sharon, don’t.”

“No. I’m not… I’m not saying that like it’s bad, because it’s not. You’re an awesome dad, Steve Rogers.”

Steve stared down at his grass. It needed mowing again. “So. My liking men wasn’t a dealbreaker.”

“Not as long as you loved me exclusively.” Sharon leaned against the car with him, bumping his shoulder. “So. Back to my original question, why are you asking this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“This about Hot Neighbor Guy?”

“Ohhhhhh, yes.” Steve chuckled weakly, nodding.

“I think he likes you. I could be wrong,” she snarked.

“Shut up.”

“Just a guess. You can tell a lot about a guy’s intentions when they have their tongue jammed down your throat…”

“ _Sharon!_ ” Steve felt his color rise up his neck.

“So, he still has a girlfriend?”

“Yes. And that won’t change any time soon. We kind of talked about it.”

“So you’re giving him space.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fine. Sucks that he’s still taken, but hey. That’s fine.” Then it dawned on her. “So… does his girlfriend not know that he’s-“

“He’s not sure. He seems worried about it.”

“So. I’m getting this little vibe that you’re worried about it, too.”

“Yeah. I kind of am? Not… because I like him. I like him, but I’m more worried that what happened between us will cause problems. I don’t want to cause problems for him. Or for what he and Tory have.”

“Well, you goofed, buddy,” Sharon told him, shrugging and sounding an awful lot like Libby. “Gotta keep a leash on those lips.”

“That’s asking a lot. I mean, you’ve _seen_ him, right? Do you know how much it _hurts_ to back off?”

“Oh, I bet. That man is _ridiculous_. Lord, that _mouth_. Those _lashes_ , and the _butt_ on that guy-“

“HEY!” Steve feigned indignance, and Sharon elbowed him.

“Hey, a girl’s gotta look once in a while.”

“Find your own…”

“I _can_ ,” she said haughtily. “I’ve still got it.” Sharon gave him a little shove. “Get off my car. I have to go food shopping. Need me to pick up anything for Libby?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m gonna go to the pharmacy and refill her albuterol.” The sound of his daughter’s breathing worried him. “And get some soup.”

“They had a special on Progresso. Check the circulars for the coupon,” she suggested. Sharon gave Steve’s arm a pat. “All right. Talk soon. Try to restrain yourself.”

“That’s no fun at all,” Steve countered.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules. Set a good example for Liberty. Don’t teach your daughter to steal other people’s boyfriends, Steve-O.”

It made him ache for a moment that Sharon called him the same nickname that Bucky did.

“I won’t.”

“Bye.” She drove off, and Steve trotted back up his porch steps to take inventory of his medicine chest and pantry.

*

 

Steve headed to the pharmacy and grocery store and stocked up on the essentials, returning home with several plastic bags looped over his wrist by the handles as he keyed his way back into the house. Libby woke up from her nap with flushed cheeks and glazed-looking eyes, and Steve checked her forehead.

“Kiddo… how about a shower? Don’t turn the water too warm, okay?” 

“M’tired still, Dad.” She coughed, and it was a wet, harsh sound. Steve winced.

“Shower, okay? Then some medicine.”

“Okay.” 

She padded upstairs, and he heard the bathroom door slam and the sound of running water. Steve had contemplated a trip to the gym, but mentally scratched it off his list. Liberty was _sick_. Steve put a can of soup on the stove to boil and took down a couple of bowls from the cupboard. He went to the bathroom and brought out the nebulizer and ripped open the foil pack of albuterol vials and prepped the cup, diffuser and tubing out of long habit. Libby would be less grouchy about getting a breathing treatment if she could at least do it in front of the TV. 

Libby reappeared in sweats and a tee and bare feet until Steve balked and brought her down a pair of socks. She looked a little less flushed, but he gave her the Motrin with a glass of apple juice, which she barely sipped. He handed her the nozzled cup and flicked on the nebulizer, and Libby made an aggrieved sound, frowning at Steve like a wet cat as she took her dose. Steve went back to check on their lunch and handed her the remote. He heard the beginnings of “Catfish” on MTV and wondered for the millionth time why his daughter liked that show.

He brought out her soup and set it on the coffee table to cool off while she continued her treatment. Her cough sounded awful, but it began to loosen a little. It was so hard to see her struggling to breathe. Every time Libby would try to take a relaxed breath, she would gag and cough. Steve hopped up and fetched a box of Kleenex. “Spit that out, if you bring anything up, Lib.”

“I know,” she groused, choking again. Steve folded his arms to keep from wringing his hands. _Shit._

He took the nebulizer to the bathroom to clean it up and put it away, but as he came out of the bathroom, Libby ran past him, shooting around him in the doorway, and she launched herself over the toilet in the nick of time. Steve winced again at the sounds of retching and spitting.

“Oh, babe, are you okay?”

“N-no,” she coughed.

He chanced a look over her shoulder, and she was bringing _everything_ up with a lot of mucus. “Okay. Done?”

She nodded, wiping her mouth. Poor kid was so miserable. 

“Go ahead and rinse your mouth.” She eventually followed out, and Steve replaced the apple juice with ginger ale and a glass of ice water. Libby knew the drill: Small sips would keep away the nausea and keep her hydrated. Steve knew the drill, too: Keep a bucket and a wastebasket by the couch.

That was his day, sorted.

*

Libby fell asleep in front of her MTV while Steve cleaned house and fretted. She wasn’t keeping down much, even as her cough loosened a little more. She complained about aching when he went to prop her up with some more cushions, and that sent his stress into overdrive. Steve tried to do a little work on his laptop, managing his emails and travel arrangements, but he was distracted. Steve put Libby’s soup in Tupperware and decided to make some sandwiches for dinner. Libby didn’t even pick at hers, even though it was her favorite BLT.

Nighttime came sooner than he thought; Steve was exhausted, finally over his hangover but not trusting himself to rest. He gave Libby another treatment and her decongestant, slathered her with Vicks vaporub and left a night light on in the bathroom, planting the wastebasket by her bed. When he kissed her forehead, she was still a little warm. _This wasn’t just a cold._

Steve took his laptop to bed. It wasn’t the same as actually sleeping. He kept his ears cracked for the sounds of her getting up, but he heard her shifting around in bed, then eventually heard her low snores. Steve read a few news headlines and watched a little Netflix, but it didn’t help. He finally put the laptop aside when the clock told him it was ten-thirty. 

He didn’t even think he had dozed for a half an hour before he felt himself being shaken awake. His eyes were bleary and he jerked at the contact. “What… what’s wrong?”

Libby was breathing stertorously, wheezing and clutching the collar of her tee. That got him up like a _shot_.

“Right. Shoes. Shoes, baby. Don’t worry about clothes. I’ll grab your jacket. Just relax. Okay?”

Steve couldn’t remember the last time he moved so fast. He grabbed his cell, keys, wallet, his jacket and her hoodie and bundled her into the car in her favorite fleece blanket printed with Kermit the Frog. Libby’s gait was a shuffling stagger, and Steve supported her against him while he rattled off the reason for their visit to the admissions nurse at the front desk. 

It didn’t get any more fun with repetition. They managed to bypass the long wait in the lobby and were placed in an exam room in the Chest Pain side of the ER. The young ER tech took her vitals quickly.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Day and a half,” Steve guesstimated.

“Any vomiting?”

“Ohhhhh, yes.”

“Okay. Doctor will be in here in a minute.” Libby gagged slightly on the tongue depressor, and Steve nudged the kick bucket closer to the gurney. Libby looked miserable, huddling in her blanket. Steve contemplated the stack of dog-eared People and Golf Digest magazines, but they didn’t appeal to him.

Libby still sounded awful, even though she was a little calmer in the sterile-looking suite than she had been at home. Steve wondered if it was the initial panic that made things worse. He never wanted to wake up like that _again_.

The ER doctor’s tag identified him as Leonard Sampson, MD. “Okay. You must be Liberty?”

“Libby,” she corrected him before coughing up a lung. That brought up wads of phlegm, and Steve crammed a bunch of Kleenex into her palm.

“Basin might be better,” Dr. Sampson mentioned, pulling a large pink one down from the cabinet. “Okay. So. You’re feverish, kiddo. One hundred and three. We need to bring that temp down a little, and I want to bring you upstairs.”

Just what Steve had been dreading. “Then what?”

“Chest CT and x-rays, lab draws, and O2. We’ll set her up with an IV and a little Zofran to stop the vomiting. Don’t want her to get too dried out.” He peeked at Libby’s printout from the desk. “History of asthma?”

“Heart surgery, too. She’s had pneumonia before, too. She had RSV when she was little.”

“So you have a nebulizer at home?”

“Yes.”

Steve rattled off his raft of answers by rote. They’d done this before, and it didn’t get better with repetition. His conversation with Sharon came back to him, and he decided it was a good time to text her. _We went to the ER. Libby has pneumonia. They haven’t said it yet, but it’s gotta be it. Keep you posted._

Not even thirty seconds went by before he felt his phone buzz in his hand as they slid a cannula over Libby’s nose. Steve talked to Sharon over the low hiss of O2. “Hey.” His voice was a hoarse croak.

“You sound like hell.”

“So does she?”

“Oh, God. This sucks. It was just supposed to be a cold.”

“I know. They’re taking her upstairs.”

“Want me to head over?”

“Go to the house first. Pack her a little bag, just in case?”

“That’s fine. Do you need anything?”

A break. A stiff drink. A reprieve from the universe’s idea that he would get too bored without all the curve balls it kept throwing at him. “No. I’m fine.”

“Be there soon.” Steve put Sharon on the phone with Libby for a moment, and watched his daughter nod replies to her mother’s frantic questions and cough until he took the phone away.

“She sounds like hell.”

“See you.”

“See you.”

Steve finally gave in and read the horrible magazines. He didn’t care about Brangelina or J-Lo’s exit from Idol or the Kardashians’ new makeup line. It just gave him something frivolous to think about for a minute before the nurse came in an rattled off the orders the doctor had entered into the system. They snapped a wristband onto Libby’s arm and she nodded when they asked her birthday. Up went the IV bag, in went the needle – that earned the nurse a dirty look, but it couldn’t be helped – and up they went in the elevator. 

When it dinged as they reached the Pedes floor, Steve thought he was dreaming when he saw Bucky in his dark blue coveralls. He was wearing the Flight Care jumpsuit, and the color brought out his eyes. His hair was slightly windblown, and Steve wanted to groan in relief at the sight of him. His eyes looked alarmed at the sight of them as they came out, and Bucky automatically fell into step with them as the ER tech brought them down the hall. “What’s going on?” 

“Pneumonia.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bucky crooned. Libby waved at him weakly but didn’t offer a greeting. “You look gray.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I just got back from a pickup. I need to talk to the charge nurse and Dispatch, but…”

“It’s okay. We’re gonna get settled in.”

Bucky’s brows were crinkled with concern, bringing out those cute little lines in his forehead. “Okay. You have my number.”

“I know. We’ll manage, Buck.”

Bucky was so reluctant to leave, but reason won out as the nurses in the unit began to hook Libby up to the wall O2 and unplugged her cannula from the one under the gurney and transfer her IV. They brought her one of the homely gowns and slip-proof socks, and Bucky took that as his cue to go.

“Night, Steve.”

“Later, Buck.”

“Bye,” Libby rasped, waving again, and she looked too small on the bed, pale and waxy-skinned with chapped lips. Bucky’s gut twisted.

“Bye, baby.”

Night shift could be a mixed blessing. Bucky had wondered to himself when he would see Steve next. This wasn’t how he would have liked to, though. 

Not even a teeny, little bit.


	10. Cup of Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky supports Steve, but unfortunately neglects other aspects of his life. Steve starts to notice, too. Libby’s pretty sharp; she notices, too.
> 
> Words are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be a turning point in the story. They were adulty and responsible last chapter, but now, Feelings Have Happened. Oops.

Libby on steroids was a very crabby Libby. Steve was at his wit’s end.

They were on day five in Pedes, and Steve hadn’t seen his razor for that long. Every time he rubbed his face, an exhausted reflex, his jaw felt like sandpaper.

“You need a shave, Dad,” Libby rasped. Her throat was dry from frequent breathing treatments and the oxygen whistling through the cannula in her nose.

“I know, pumpkin.”

“That beard makes you look old.”

Steve huffed. “ _Well._ ” He was sure he looked affronted, but he almost wanted to argue with her that, no; it wasn’t the beard that made him look older, it was the bags and dark circles under his eyes from not sleeping on the uncomfortable little vinyl, pull-out couch in the pediatric suite. He indulged her, deciding it wasn’t time for a lecture on tact.

“Have some 7-UP,” he urged, handing her the little four-ounce can the nurse brought her from the unit’s pantry. Libby made a face of disgust.

“It’s all warm and flat.”

“Do you want something else?”

“I want fruit punch, instead.”

“I’ll ask if you can have that. I’ll go downstairs to get it if you can.”

"Can I have it with ice?" 

“That’s fine, baby.”

“When’s Mom coming o-“ Libby’s voice gargled slightly as she coughed, wet, ragged sounds as she brought up another gout of phlegm. Steve reached for the pink basin on the side table and handed it to her, making a face as she spat into it. Her eyes were watery and glazed from her effort, and Steve took the basin back gingerly to wash it out in the sink.

“She should be here in a little bit.”

“Okay,” Libby croaked. Her breathing sounded a little less rattley, but still not great.

“Okay. I’ll just… I’ll be back, okay?”

Steve wavered. Every time he left the room, he felt his stomach knot. All he had to do was let the charge nurse at the desk know where he was going, and Libby had a call button in his room, but he remained rooted to his perch beside her bed out of habit and time-honed instinct. Libby’s early years were marked by frequent, too-long stays in Pedes, and every time scared him. It didn’t get any easier with repetition. Steve exhaled a gusty breath. “Okay,” he repeated. “Back in a flash.”

“Kay.” Libby gave him a wan smile and waved, then went back to her smartphone, even though the unit discouraged them. Steve was on “radio silence” when Libby was in the pediatric ICU after her heart surgery so the phone signal wouldn’t interfere with the telemetry equipment. He couldn’t regret it; work and the outside world took a back seat to getting his daughter well. Every time.

He nodded to the nurses working the desk, and he leaned against the edge of the counter. “Hey. I’m going downstairs for a minute to get Libby something from the cafeteria.”

“Would she want something from the pantry?” Steve sighed, chuckling.

“She’s getting a little tired of graham crackers and 7-Up. She wants a fruit punch.”

“Oh, that should be okay. Just remind her to push the water, too. It’ll help with the congestion.”

“Will do. We know the drill.”

“I know,” she said sympathetically. This nurse’s name was Sharon, too. Her peer, Annie, was a recent graduate from the local college’s nursing program. She wore scrubs printed with Dora the Explorer and she had girlish stickers on her work badge.

“Back in a flash.”

Steve made his way to the cafeteria and perused the bland offerings and less than impressive salad bar; the cellophane-wrapped cookies that came from a local coffee shop and were ridiculously overpriced; a metal tureen of questionable looking chowder; rapidly cooling carafes of regular and decaf coffee that smelled better than it tasted, and the most pitiful excuse for a “hearth healthy” entrée being served at the hot counter that Steve ever saw. He went to the soda dispenser and filled a tall Styrofoam to-go cup with Hi-C and ice, lidded it and unwrapped a straw to poke into the top, stealing a sip of it before he took it to the register. He snagged himself an Odwalla bar and a packet of Triscuits and winced in disgust at the price once he was rung up. Highway robbery.

His feet wore a groove in the floor tiles after a while from so many trips back to Libby’s room, back and forth with her to go for scans, visits to the financial counseling office… he attempted to keep up with his emails from work and had his secretary block out his schedule. He didn’t regret canceling his business trip, even if his commissions suffered. Steve watched patients ambulating the halls, clinging to wall rails, bent over walkers and dragging IV poles that made rhythmic clickity-clacks with their janky wheels. 

When he made it up to the floor again, he heard voices in Libby’s room, Sharon’s, and…

“Hey, Rogers,” Bucky greeted, and his smile practically caressed Steve, making those blue eyes crinkle and light up.

“Hey. What… what are you doing awake?”

“I worked three twelves this week to cover Clint. This is technically my Saturday.”

“Buck. You’ve gotta be beat.” Then he remembered that Sharon was there and sheepishly gave her a one-armed hug.

“I had a 911,” Bucky told him smugly. Steve shuddered; he had no clue how Bucky could stomach that much caffeine, but it was his favorite drink from Dutch Bros. 

“Wow.”

“I’d be bouncing off the walls. Or foaming at the mouth,” Sharon pronounced. “But he’s been entertaining us.” Steve didn’t doubt it.

“Libby’s about ready to punch me,” Bucky told Steve, grinning. Libby narrowed her eyes at him, giving him a tight little smile that declared, _I am totally judging you_.

“He told me he’s gonna switch out my O2 with helium so I sound like a Chipmunk,” Libby tattled.

“You used to love the Chipmunks,” Steve reminded her.

“Dad.” 

“You did!”

“Did _not_.”

Steve snickered and handed her the drink, unwrapping the packet of Triscuits. Libby nibbled the corner of one, unimpressed with its dry, brittle texture. She washed it down with several generous swallows of the punch.

Bucky rose then, and he ran his hand through the back of his hair, tugging at his ponytail. “I won’t stay in the way,” he mentioned. “I just wanted to bring Lib a little something.” Sharon nodded and gestured to the bouquet of mixed purple flowers: agapanthuses, gladioluses, some star jasmine, irises, mingled with baby’s breath and white Shasta daisies. 

“Somebody has good taste,” she told him.

“Pretty flowers for a pretty girl,” Bucky countered. He reached down and tweaked one of Libby’s toes where her foot stuck out from the blankets, and she gave him a tired smile.

“Thank you.”

“Do me a favor and get better quick, kiddo.”

“M’working on it.”

Bucky huffed. “If that doesn’t sound like your dad…”

“Oh, that it does. Chip off the old block,” Sharon chipped in. She was at the head of the bed, stroking Libby’s hair back from her flushed face. “You feel a little warm again.”

Libby sighed through her nose, then coughed again. Sharon rubbed her arm soothingly and handed her the basin again. Steve and Bucky both looked fretful.

“Attagirl. Cough that out,” Bucky encouraged. 

When she finished, she sank back into the pillows, bed still elevated to help clear her lungs. “Yuck,” she muttered.

“Yeah, we’ll go with ‘yuck,’” Sharon agreed. “You just coughed up a foot.”

“I didn’t swallow a foot,” Libby argued.

“It sounded like you swallowed a foot,” Steve told her.

“Bucky, tell them I didn’t swallow a foot,” Libby whined, swinging her eyes Bucky’s way. Her expression begged _See what I have to deal with?_

“How many feet do you have left?” Bucky reached out to tweak her toe again, and she jerked her foot away with a huff. “Right. I should… get going.”

“Hey, Bucky? I’ll walk you out.” Steve held up his finger, gesturing to Sharon briefly. “Just… back in a sec.”

Sharon’s lips curled slightly; then she pretended interest in the limited cable selections on the TV as Steve and Bucky ducked out into the hall. They meandered toward the elevator, and Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You look rough,” Bucky told him. “But Libby looks a little better.”

“Yeah. That’s all I want right now.”

“I know.”

Steve gusted out a shaky breath. “I’m kinda all over the place right now. Sorry.”

“Steve. Your baby’s sick. Don’t apologize. Please.” Bucky touched him, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze. “Don’t think you have to do any of this by yourself.”

“Thanks for coming. This is your day off. You should be sleeping in or hanging out with Tory or Bear-“

“Tory’s at the office anyway. We’re meeting up for dinner. She loves her grueling, daytime desk job like certain people I know whose names I won’t mention.” Even though he pretend-coughed “Steve!” into his first. Steve gave him a light shove.

“You’re hilarious.”

“Do you need anything?” Bucky inquired. “I mean, I know Sharon’s here… Just let me know, okay?”

“I’ll manage. Thanks again, Buck. The flowers… that was just so thoughtful.”

Bucky ducked his head, eyes flitting away for a moment, then returning full of understanding and sympathy. “She’s gonna be all right, Rogers.”

“I know.” But Steve just looked so… worn down. Pulling loose at the seams. 

Bucky hesitated, itching to reach for him, but he let his hands remain in his pockets. “Can I at least bring you dinner?”

“Sharon can do that.”

“She looks tired, too.” There were circles around her usually vibrant brown eyes; she showed up with her hair skinned back in a slightly messy granny bun and wearing a pink nylon track suit, looking like she hadn’t clocked in to work for a few days, either.

“We’ll manage, Bucky.”

“Okay. Just text me if you need anything. Or call. Doesn’t matter. Just keep me posted on how she’s doing.”

“Will do.”

Bucky’s body language was tense, lips tight in a grim line. “Just… take care of you, too, okay?”

“I know!”

It was ridiculous even trying not to bring him in. Bucky leaned in and tugged Steve in for a hug, intending for it to be perfunctory. Just a little “Attaboy!” gesture to boost him a little…

Steve’s arms coiled around Bucky’s waist, and his body shuddered against him at the contact. He felt solid and warm, and he felt him yield to the embrace. Steve’s fingers tensed at Bucky’s back, then curled into the fabric of his shirt. 

“Thanks for being here,” Steve told him, and his voice was choked, exhausted. “It means a lot.”

“ _You_ mean a lot.”

Steve huffed a laugh, clapping Bucky on the back briefly as he pulled back, and Bucky noticed Steve rubbing his eyes. He gave his shoulder one last pat. 

“Gonna bail. It’s weird looking out past my yard and your ugly mug’s nowhere in sight.”

“Hey, no view’s complete without this face in it,” Steve told him, making a goofy profile pose for a moment.

“God, you’re a cheeseball,” Bucky told him. He folded his arms. “Just… okay. I’ll go. I just… miss you two. Okay?”

Steve nodded, and Bucky ached to hold him again, but a long gurney swept by them, steered by an aide in dark blue scrubs who was having a tricky time working the brakes. Bucky instinctively caught the end of the rail and helped them over the grate of the elevator as it opened, and she thanked him with an awkward smile. Steve’s smile was wan but full of naked admiration that made Bucky doubt himself.

“See you back at home.”

“You will.”

“Bye, Buck.”

“Later, Steve.” He gave him a little salute, and Steve didn’t take his eyes off of Bucky until the elevator door closed on the sight of his concerned face, the tense set of his shoulders, the hands still jammed into his pockets.

*

Steve headed back to Libby’s room, and the three of them played a few rounds of Uno, using the overbed tray as a card table. 

“Well, kiddo, this wasn’t how summer break was supposed to go.” Sharon laid down a red seven on top of Steve’s red five.

“You’ll be feeling great right on time to go back to school,” he encouraged.

“Yaaaaaaayyy,” Libby muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, she sounds _thrilled_ ,” Sharon chuckled.

“This sucks,” Libby hissed. She slapped down a blue eight, leaving Steve with a handful of green red cards that he now had to keep.

“We’ll make it up to you, sweetie,” Sharon promised.

“Hate this,” Libby continued, before she tried to clear her throat and began coughing up more gunk, struggling to spit it all out. Her face bloomed with an ugly flush, eyes glazed, and Steve finally reached for the plastic yankauer attached to the suction machine above the side table. He gestured for her to open up her mouth and reached in, turning the suction on and draining the sputum out from where it clogged her throat. Libby gagged, but she was breathing a little more clearly when he finished.

“Wow,” Sharon murmured, cringing. 

“Want a little something to drink?” Steve suggested, holding up the melting cup of ice chips.

Libby shook her head miserably, sinking back into the pillows and hunching down in the blankets.

Steve felt panic drifting back into his chest. Sharon’s face mimicked his grimace of concern.

Annie came in with her clipboard and turned on the small, rolling computer terminal in the corner. “Hey, there,” she chirped, voice bright. “What’s up? How are we doing?”

“Hanging in,” Sharon told her. “Except, she feels a little warm.”

“Ooh. Okay. Y’know what? It’s time for vitals, anyway. Let me just get a BP and pulse ox really quick…” She hummed to herself while she picked up the blood pressure cuff and wrapped it snugly but comfortably around Libby’s slender upper arm. She pushed the button on the monitor and the cuff expanded, earning Libby’s look of annoyance.

“Hurts,” she complained.

“I know. Every little thing feels worse when you’re already sick. Okay. That doesn’t look too bad. Here’s the finger puppet,” she joked, placing the pulse ox clip on Libby’s index finger. Libby sighed, then yawned. The urge was contagious; Steve and Sharon didn’t restrain theirs, not caring much about politeness.

“Ooh.”

“What?” Steve’s brows drew together.

“That number’s a little low.” Annie nodded to the monitor’s display. “We’re at ninety-four percent. Her sats were higher yesterday.”

“She’s been okay on two liters,” Steve argued.

“We might want to have Doctor Sampson come up and evaluate her. He might want to do another CT scan. We want to stay on top of this.”

“Sure.”

“He’ll also see if the steroids are helping her, at this point. We might need to swing in with a stronger antibiotic.”

“Okay,” Steve told her woodenly.

_Please don’t let this be a setback. Please, God. This is my little girl._

*

Bucky returned home to an anxious dog and several voice mails that he’d ignored during his visit, respectfully keeping the ringer on his cell turned off. Bear practically knocked him down, tail wagging at about sixty miles per hour. “Missed you too, ya big baby,” Bucky promised as Bear licked his face like it was going out of style. “I know, buddy, I know.”

Bucky retreated to the couch for a minute and checked his messages. There was one from Clint, thanking him for taking his shift. He went with his friend T’Challa to take in a concert, some up and comer named Monica Lynne. He Snapchatted Bucky some pictures from offstage, and a couple of him and his friend raising pints of beer. Nat dropped him a brief note asking if he wanted her to sign him up for the work potluck the next day. Bucky shrugged, then told her to put him down for potato salad.

Bucky tipped his head back against the top of the couch cushion and blew out a breath that made his lips flap. Bear leaned up and licked his face, nosing at him as if to ask him if he was all right. He felt less enthusiastic about going out to dinner, wondering if Tory would find him decent company. Canceling wasn’t a comfortable option. Guilt settled over his skin in a hot haze. He couldn’t throw a wall between himself and his girlfriend, when she deserved so much more than that.

The question that haunted him, that lingered in his mind late at night, was _could he give her more_? 

Bucky put on his game face and got himself ready, showering and make some effort with his hair. He put on the soft, gentian blue Henley that Tory bought him as a gift, which she said brought out his eyes. Bucky let Bear out into the back yard and texted Tory to let her know he was on his way. But when he backed his car out of the driveway, his smartphone screen showed him her contact photo as it rang. Bucky set the phone onto its stand on the dash and swiped the call.

“Hey, babe.” He tried to make his voice sound bright, but it was strained. “I just got out the door. Miss me?”

“Did I miss you? Hmmmmm…” Her indecisive tone made him smirk. “Are we still in that phase?”

Bucky choked on a laugh. “That wasn’t nice!”

“Hey, you asked, big guy.”

“So. We still on for stir fry?”

“If that’s still what you want?”

Bucky sighed. He toyed with the idea of changing their plans to somewhere with a shorter wait time. To give himself more leeway if Steve called or messaged him.

“That’s still fine.”

“Okay, then. See you when you get here.”

They rang off, and Bucky hoped she didn’t hear the uncertainty in his voice, or somehow feel how jangled his nerves were. But he couldn’t get Steve off his mind. His body, traitorous as ever, remembered the feel of those arms wrapped around him, clinging to him like he couldn’t let Bucky go.

God, why did it have to be so hard?

*

Bucky arranged his face into welcoming lines as he knocked on Tory’s door. He heard her keys jingling and the thuds of her high heels moving across the carpet before she opened for him, and her smile was cautious. “Hey. You look nice.” She reached for him and gently pulled him inside by the hand, giving him a brief, soft kiss. “You okay?”

“Mm. Fine. Why?”

“You just seem… a little blue.” Her eyes flitted over his face and she cradled his jaw in her cool palm. Bucky smiled, eyes crinkling, and he kissed her palm more loudly than necessary. His arm snaked out and caught her around the waist, and he gave her a much more demonstrative kiss. Tory’s arms drifted up around his neck, fingers curling into his hair, and she hummed appreciatively into his mouth.

“Dinner,” she murmured against him.

“Sure?”

“Um, _yeah_. I’m starving.”

“Can’t change your mind?” Bucky gave his hips an experimental grind against hers, nipping her bottom lip, but she tugged a lock of his hair in umbrage.

“Not unless you wanna see me with a case of the hangries. That ain’t pleasant, buddy.”

“Damn it,” Bucky grumbled, but he smiled and gave her another peck. “Fair enough. Stir fry, huh?”

“You sound like you’re having second thoughts.”

“They take a while, sometimes.”

“Should be okay, if we get there early enough.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

They took Bucky’s car and turned onto the freeway. He turned on the stereo, letting it play for a minute, then was surprised when Tory reached over to turn down the volume.

“Ear drums. I like mine.”

“Was that too loud?”

“A smidgen.” She held up her finger and thumb. “How was work?”

“I was off.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. You told me that. Get any rest?”

“It’s always hard that first day. Gotta get caught up on the stuff that I miss out on when I’m on.” Sleep sometimes took a back seat. Especially when his closest friend was struggling, he didn’t add.

“What did you end up doing?”

“I visited Steve’s daughter in Pedes.”

Tory’s face softened. “Oh, no. How is she?”

“Kiddo’s really sick.”

“Poor baby. Oh, that’s miserable.”

“Just stopped by to see how Steve was doing. His ex was there. They both kinda looked like hell. Libby was pretty feisty.”

“Feisty’s a good thing.” Tory stared out the passenger window and rubbed her nape. Her expression was hard to read.

Bucky reached over and stroked her bare knee. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah. I’m not a big fan of hospitals. Mom was a frequent flyer.” Tory smiled at him. “Ovarian. We lost her about a year and a half after she was diagnosed.”

“Aw, babe,” Bucky murmured, giving her knee a squeeze. 

“Her feisty days were her _good_ days,” Tory explained.

“Bet they were.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s okay.”

Tory sighed. “Anyway. Steve and Libby. Did you bring them anything?”

“Flowers.”

Tory beamed, covering his hand with hers, lacing their fingers together. “That was nice.”

There was a hint of tension between them as they waited in the lobby of the Mongolian barbecue bar. Bucky sat with his knees widely splayed, jittering his heel. Tory raised her brow and gave him a look.

“You sure have ants in your pants, tonight.”

“Doing this actually burns five calories a minute,” he countered.

“Oh. Good to know. I’m skipping my workout tomorrow.”

“Hey, don’t go that far!” Tory sighed and leaned back in her chair. Their fingers were laced again, but the grip wasn’t as comfortable as it had been in the car. It took a few minutes for the server to call their names for their table, and his release of her hand was abrupt. Instead, his palm was gentle at her lower back as Bucky let Tory walk ahead of him, following the server toward the back of the dining room. Tory stowed her purse and the server took their order for drinks. Then they stood in the buffet line, filling bowls with raw vegetables and frozen, shaved rolls of meat. Tory expertly mashed her meats flat with a second ceramic bowl before moving on to the greens, eschewing the noodles entirely. She began building a tower of vegetables, an expert by now with the tongs.

“We didn’t have to wait that long,” she boasted.

“That sounds like an I-told-you-so.”

“Mm.” Tory shrugged, eyes innocent. _I said no such thing. Even if I did,_ that gesture told him.

Bucky sighed as he packed noodles atop his meats and then relieved the broccoli container of half its yield.

They drizzled sauces and oils onto their bowls and stood across from the grill, watching the cooks circle it with their long tongs, flipping and turning it, dousing it with pitchers of water to build up steam. The scents of garlic and onion made Bucky’s mouth water, but his stomach was knotted with stress. Tory could feel it, and that frustrated him.

Their server met them back at their table with their drinks, a small dish of wontons, and cups of steamed rice. They both ate the first few bites in silence, savoring it. 

“Are they planning to let Libby out soon?”

“Huh? Oh. I don’t know. It’s pneumonia. It takes a while to wean down on the O2.”

“Right. Wow. I forgot. You’re right. I hope she pulls through this soon.”

“They’re taking good care of her.”

They kept eating, and Bucky slowly scanned the dining room, people-watching. It was packed tonight, and the buffet line was beginning to snake around the room. He saw a few preschool-aged kids darting around between tables, screeching at the tops of their lungs. There was a cute old couple seated a few feet away; the woman’s four-wheel walker was folded beside their booth, and Bucky saw her husband get up and take her bowl with him to refill it, fondly kissing her temple before he left. He saw college kids Snapchatting photos of their dinners and drowning their rice in soy sauce, reading each other’s fortunes from the cookies and trying to pronounce the words of Chinese written on the backs of the strips. 

“So, anyway. I’m going to visit my dad soon.”

“Oh. When?”

“For Fourth of July weekend. Are you working it?”

“I haven’t worked that out with Clint and Nat yet to see if they want it off,” he explained absently, twirling fat noodles around his fork.

“Is it too late to request it off?”

“Probably not, but…”

Then it occurred to him what she was asking.

Tory wanted to bring him home to meet her dad.

 

On Steve and Libby’s birthday weekend.

 

_Fuck._

Bucky smiled, but his body language betrayed the disappointment he was about to deliver. She saw it in the set of his shoulders. “Is that not going to work out?”

“It’s not that it won’t. It _might_ not? It’s up in the air,” he hedged.

“That wasn’t the weekend you wanted to take off?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to take it off. I just usually have plans for it.”

“Oh.” Tory looked mollified. She forked up a bit of broccoli and carrot. “What do you usually do?”

“Spend it with Steve.”

Her fork froze for a moment just as she closed her lips around that bite. Bucky felt a little jerk of worry in his gut. She chewed her food and attempted to work it down with a sip of water. “Oh,” she replied, garbled.

“That might not even happen, if they aren’t home by then,” he reasoned. “I mean, we could still plan to see your dad-“

“I know. It’s… I’m probably going to see him? I mean, whether you or I do anything together that weekend, I’m going to see Pop, that’s a given,” she pronounced, and Bucky felt strangely relieved. “You can do your thing, baby. No pressure, okay?” Tory reached across the table and took his hand, comfortingly stroking his knuckles. He squeezed her fingers back and gave her a tidy, grateful little smile, crinkles back in place around his eyes. “I just hope she feels better. If you want me to pick up anything for them, too, let me know, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that. That’s sweet. I’ll tell Steve and Libby you’re rooting for them to get home.”

She smiled and nodded. “Definitely.”

They made small talk over the rest of dinner. Bucky asked Tory if she wanted to go up for a second bowl. He was relieved when she shook her head and quickly sucked down the rest of her glass of water. They left a modest tip under the empty rice cup and settled up the bill. The ride home was still quiet. Bucky snuck looks over at Tory. She looked beautiful, hair hanging down in loose curls, wearing a pretty cold-shoulder, black sundress with a short hem and platform sandals on her feel. He noticed her rubbing her nape again, this time rotating her neck a little.

“Stiff?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, wincing. “Long day. Long _week_. Had to deal with my account manager today. Team meeting. Spreadsheets. Rate changes. Fun stuff. Had a group decide at the last minute that they wanted to add COBRA coverage for another thousand members. And flexible spending.”

“And that gives you a stiff neck?”

“No. Rolling my eyes every time my account manager tells me she wants the rate changes by lunch gives me a stiff neck.”

Bucky snickered. They pulled into her lot and Bucky walked her up. They lingered at her door as she keyed her way inside. “Thanks for dinner,” she told him, easing her hands over the contour of his shoulders. Tory leaned in and kissed him; his lips were cooperative, and his palms were warm around her waist. “Gonna hang out here, or…?”

“Gonna run around a little tomorrow,” he said. “It’s my Sunday. We can do stuff if you want. Just text me.”

She nodded, shrugging. “Hm.”

_Hm._

Tory kissed him again, this time longer, like she meant it, hands tugging on his hair, breasts pressed into his chest. Bucky’s body responded, but his mind was miles away. He reached down and pinched her hip. “C’mon, now…”

“I know, I know,” she muttered, voice long-suffering. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow, anyway. Can’t blame a girl for trying. Not when you look _nice_ in that shirt.”

“Night, babe.”

“Night, James.” One last peck, and he made his way down the hall before she even shut the door. He was at the elevator before he heard it click.

*

 

“Dad?” Libby stared at her father through a cloud of nebulizer mist.

“What’s up?”

“Is Bucky coming today?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention it, but he might stop by. Why?”

“Mm-nh-hnnn,” she murmured as she put the mouthpiece between her lips.

Steve raised his brows, then went back to his Sudoku puzzle. 

Her saturation was still a little iffy, and her breathing treatments were more frequent. The RT came in and did CPT (cardiopercussive therapy) for a few minutes in the morning, then again before dinner, and Libby hacked up a storm. 

Steve was going a little stir crazy from his time in the hospital room. He managed to get one decent baseball game on the hospital’s lousy cable channel. He and Libby also wiled away a bit of time watching Cupcake Wars and game shows; Libby gave Steve a surprising run for his money on Jeopardy, managing to beat him on the Daily Double. Libby tried to be a good sport, but she was restless and missed her friends. She Snapchatted a picture of herself with the cannula in, making a nasty face with lots of frowning emojis. Steve selfie’d with her, captioning his Facebook post “hanging with the sickie. Don’t mind the bags under my eyes.” His check-in post got about fifty replies, and a couple of his coworkers promised to stop by.

Sharon came back shortly with a sandwich for him and a new pair of Ugg booties for Libby to cheer her up, some lip gloss that she wouldn’t be able to wear until she got home (because of the oxygen), and an issue of Teen Vogue. She kissed Libby’s forehead, then scowled. “Why do you still feel so warm?”

“I don’t know,” Libby told her.

“She feels warm,” Sharon repeated to Steve. Libby’s cheeks were florid again.

“Your body can’t make up its mind.” And the room was freezing, air conditioning cranked up enough that Steve’s skin felt clammy. “Doctor Samson is supposed to be rounding soon.”

“Ask him about this,” Sharon hissed. Steve was put off by her tone and the stiff set of her shoulders. 

“We _will_.”

Libby let out an exasperated breath as her glance flicked between them, then she coughed raggedly and reached for a basin. Steve reached over and lightly thumped her on the back. “Bring it up, sweetie.”

“Yeek,” Sharon murmured, grimacing. “Still sounds pretty gross, kiddo.”

“I know it’s gross,” Libby complained as though her mother was five. Sniping at each other was a favorite family activity when Libby became seriously ill.

There was a low knock on the door. “Is this a bad time?” Bucky gave them a tentative smile, waving at Libby. She waved back, and he brandished a gift bag from the hospital’s gift shop.

“They have a lot of weird stuff down there.” He handed her the bag, and Libby pulled out a pair of leopard-spotted slip-proof socks. 

“Oh, neat!”

“Those are cute,” Sharon agreed.

“If they let you take a spin in the halls, you’ll be looking sharp,” Bucky told her.

“Probably won’t yet,” Steve told him. Bucky took a look at her monitors and frowned at her vitals.

“You’re not hitting the beach any time soon,” he told Libby. 

Her sigh was equal parts disappointed and annoyed, and she kicked the bed with a thump.

“Awwww, baby,” Steve crooned as he stroked his daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

“This sucks.” Libby’s voice sounded wet. Bucky felt a twisting sensation in his chest. _Poor sweetheart._

“She just wants to get out of here,” Sharon explained needlessly. 

“Well, if this was a Double Tree Inn with an indoor pool and great wifi and continental breakfast, it’d be different,” Bucky reasoned. “It’s okay, Libster. All right? I know you’re disappointed. You just want to feel good again.”

“I don’t even remember what it feels like not to be sick,” she moaned into her pillow, and she was crying, and that made every adult in the room _really_ feel like shit. “I hate this so much.” Sharon was rubbing her back soothingly, but her face was tight.

“Yeah, that sucks,” she agreed. “Just don’t wanna have a setback, okay, sweetheart? Once your lungs are nice and clear, we’re going home, okay? We’ll do the beach. It’ll still be there. And the water park. I promise.”

Steve didn’t tell her that they would have to renegotiate her visitation schedule to make that happen, not when it was an olive branch for their daughter. 

“Why did this have to happen?” Libby demanded, voice muffled. Her eyes were watery and red.

“Because getting sick happens to awesome people,” Bucky explained, reaching over to give her hair a light tousle. She sighed, nodding. “You were minding your own business, just being awesome. You’re just gonna hafta stop that.”

That pried a laugh out of her and a smile from Steve.

“Okay,” she agreed. 

Sharon huffed, then leaned back and cracked her neck. It was impossible to get comfortable on the hard, vinyl furniture, and they’d been there a while.

“Hey, Shar,” Steve mentioned. “I’m gonna step out for a minute.” Bucky automatically stood when Steve did, and Steve made a gesture for him to follow him.

“That’s fine,” Sharon called after them. She was still stroking Libby’s hair when they closed the door.

Steve led them off to the small solarium on that wing. It was empty at the moment. Steve sat down on the ottoman by the window and scrubbed his face with his palm. He had an impressive beard growing in. Bucky’s fingers itched to touch it. “You’re off today.”

“Just running around.”

“No Tory?”

“Said she might text me,” Bucky said simply. He folded his arms and leaned against the edge of the doorway. “We did dinner last night.”

“Oh. Good.” Steve sighed, and the sound was resigned. Bucky steeled himself, feeling his stomach knot at the look in Steve’s eyes. Determined. Sad. 

“Bucky. Hey. Thanks for coming, but… just.” Steve looked like this was difficult. “I don’t want…”

“What?”

“This is your weekend.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to spend all of it with us.”

“Not all of it,” Bucky argued. “Told you, Rogers. I wanna see you guys home again. M’just worried.”

_I miss you so damned much._

“I know that.” Steve looked like his next words pained him before they even came out. “I just… I feel like I’m a distraction for you right now. I know that sounds… really shitty… damn it.”

“Steve…” Bucky’s brows drew together.

“You… you have a girlfriend. She’s gotta wonder what’s taking up your time, right?”

And it hurt. It hurt so much, when Steve wanted to cling to him, wanted to lean on Bucky’s strength, when he was drawn to him so strongly. But Bucky belonged to someone else. Steve learned a long time ago not to want what he couldn’t have, no matter how appealing it seemed. How tempting.

“I told her you guys were here, Steve!” Bucky scratched his stomach. “She said for you guys to get well soon.”

“Tell her thanks. Just… I’m glad you’re here.” Steve stood and felt a rash of guilt spread over his skin. “Things are going okay with her, right? The two of you?”

Bucky straightened up, but his mouth was a thin line. “Things are fine with us.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“We were talking about visiting her dad.”

Steve felt a little sick. _Visiting her parents._ Right.

“Guess it’s about time you did,” Steve reasoned aloud.

Bucky felt a weird spark of panic. “I mean, it’s low-key. We might not, this time. She wants to go on the Fourth, but-“

“Maybe you guys can take in some fireworks somewhere.” And Steve’s tone was oddly dismissive.

Bucky blinked.

Wow.

It had been a while since Bucky had been given a polite brush-off. It rankled.

It felt like hell coming from _Steve._

“Steve, I’m… I’ll get going. Give the kiddo a hug for me.”

“’Course.” Steve gave him a brief wave, and he let Bucky proceed him out the door. Bucky felt hollow as he headed for the elevators. He didn’t chance looking back at Steve; his face shuttered, and he spent the rest of the way back to his car telling himself that it was better this way. Less complicated. Closer to their usual footing.

The unspoken words bounced around in his head on his ride home. Bucky spent the rest of the afternoon running errands and walking his dog. A few texts materialized from Ororo, but they were noncommittal. She went out for happy hour with Anna, she said, and she was probably going to curl up with her laptop and Netflix queue for a while and turn in.

It was just as well. Bucky felt like he wasn’t good company, anyway.

*

 

“Hey, Nat?”

“What’s up?” Natasha stowed her North Face pullover in her locker and clipped her badge onto her jumpsuit pocket.

“Have you ever seen a total train wreck coming up ahead and just kind of let it happen? Like, you know you should try to make your way around it? You could’ve stopped it? But you just don’t?”

“Ooh. What’s going on?” She leaned back against the lockers and rested her foot on the bench. “That sounds ominous.”

“The gloss has worn off.”

“You and ‘Ro?”

“Yeah. I just… yeah.”

“Ahhhh.”

“I feel like a shit heel.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s great. She’s just… she’s great, but… it’s not working. Not because of anything that she’s done, but… I don’t know.”

“Pfffft. Bullshit. You _do_ know.”

“Uh, no.”

“Yes. You do. See, you just won’t _admit_ that you know. It’s right there, on the tip of your tongue. You’re just dancing around it, but you have your reasons. Maybe she has _her_ reasons, and you know what they are, but the two of you are ignoring it, because what you have is ‘comfortable.’ She’s not the love of your life. The two of you are ‘friends with benefits.’ Am I right?”

“No! She’s my girlfriend,” Bucky qualified. “We go on real dates.”

“But?” Nat prodded.

But…

They felt stiff. They lacked their old spark.

They talked, but it was polite. The rapport had changed. They’d given each other so much space and freedom that it felt… foreign when they were together, now. 

“Still knocking boots?” Nat prodded.

“Natasha.”

“Are you?” she murmured, eyes glancing around to make sure no one was horning in, and her smirk spoke volumes.

“We still do.” Less often, he didn’t add.

“Is it still good?”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine isn’t good.”

“Fine is TOO good.”

“If you say so,” she said. “Is there somebody else?”

“No!”

Nat raised her brows at him, hand planting itself on her hip. “Really?”

“Really.”

He busied himself tying his work boots.

“Still getting texts at night?”

“What… texts?”

“You know which ones.”

*

 

So, he’d admitted it to himself, Bucky pondered. And maybe to Nat. It was out there. There was no taking it back.

Except…

Damn it.

Bucky didn’t want to upset the apple cart. Break-ups _sucked_. Bucky didn’t want to have the “We need to talk” talk. He _hated_ that talk. The anticipation alone gave him indigestion. But Tory gave him a test. It came to him while he was walking his dog to clear his head. 

She invited him home to her dad’s. He hadn’t given her a concrete no, but he’d hedged. That was bad form, and he knew it. Tory knew it. She was a bright woman. They had reached a tipping point, and now, here they were.

Being alone didn’t worry him. No harm done. But setting an unreal expectation sat wrong with him. Tory was divorced. Bucky was a rebound relationship for her. She didn’t come to the table expecting him to be Prince Charming, Bucky decided. They had their fun. (A _lot_ of fun.) It _was_ comfortable.

Yet he felt something was missing. That lack was undoing him, making him question everything. 

He almost wished she would come out and say something first. He wondered if she had considered it over dinner that night. The opportunity came up by the time they got to the wontons but slipped out of their grasp by the time she kissed him goodnight. Be blunt, or drag his feet a little? He hated the decision as much as he hated being stuck on the same track, driving in circles. 

He hoped Ororo said something before he did. And he hated himself a little for it.

*

Bucky wasn’t expecting the knock on his door a couple of nights later. He was out of the shower, in his work pants and a cotton undershirt, hair still damp. Bear barked his head off, and Bucky grumbled at him “Go lay down!” before he went to answer it. Bear whined and shuffled off, claws clicking over Bucky’s hardwood floors. He opened the door to Steve, who looked sheepish and tired.

“Hey.” His smile was disarming, and he had his hands in his pockets. “Borrow a cup of sugar, neighbor?”

Bucky ducked his head. “If you return it the next time you go to market. Sugar ain’t cheap, pal.”

“No one says ‘go to market’ anymore. Sorry to break it to you.”

“I refuse to accept this.”

“Have you, uh, got a minute?” Then Steve belatedly noticed Bucky’s work clothes. “Sorry. You’re getting ready to scram.” His smile faltered, and he looked torn about whether to press for the chat he so obviously craved.

“I’ve got a minute. C’mon in, Stevie.” Bucky stepped aside to let him in. Steve’s shoulders were slumped and he looked exhausted.

“Just came home to check my mail and messages,” he explained. “Was gonna take a shower in a minute, too. I just wanted to stop by and talk for a sec. Bucky, thank you for coming to see us. I think, maybe I was kind of a jerk when-“

“No. You weren’t. You were fine. I was overstaying my welcome, I think?”

Steve shook his head emphatically, lips tight. “No. You weren’t. Bucky… God, Bucky, I’m sorry. You took the time, and I just, I kinda showed you the door, and I didn’t mean that. I was just worried that I was taking your time away from your lady.”

“She knew I wanted to give you and Libby a little of my time. I was clear with her on that,” Bucky explained softly. “It’s okay, Stevie. We take time away from each other, sometimes. We have lives.”

Steve’s laugh sounded like a shaky breath. “Yeah. Guess you do.”

Bear came running back into the room, tail wagging as soon as he saw Steve. He nuzzled and licked his hands, and Steve smiled and crouched down to give the dog some proper attention. “Who’s a good little boy?” Steve crooned. Bucky’s dog was practically vibrating with excitement, tail thumping against the floor as Steve scratched his ears. “What’re you feeding this guy? It’s like he never lost his winter coat!”

“I know. He pretends he doesn’t know it’s hot out. And he stress eats.”

“Me too.” Steve made a face. “I haven’t been to the gym in a week. M’gonna have a spare tire by the time Libby’s out of the hospital.”

“You don’t look bad.”

He just looked _tired_.

“I look like hell,” Steve argued, but he appreciated Bucky’s attempt to console him. Bear licked his face. “Yeah, you don’t mind, do ya, boy?”

It hit a soft spot inside Bucky to see those two friendly with each other. Steve’s face just lit up when the dog rolled over and gave him his belly to rub. “You’re spoiled,” Steve pronounced, using that higher-pitched “dog daddy” voice to address him, even though Bear wasn’t his. Bucky actually _felt_ some of Steve’s stress leaking out of him the longer he was in contact with Bear.

Bucky’s heart kicked.

“I thought about stopping by again,” Bucky told him. “But I figured…”

“You can, if you want. Hoping she’ll be out soon, anyway, so…”

“Hey, it’s up to you. I don’t want to take up space.”

“You don’t. You weren’t. My space is… your space.” Steve felt his cheeks heat up.

“Don’t be shy if you need me to back off, okay?”

Steve straightened up, wiping his palms on his pants legs. Bear rolled to his feet, shook himself, then rejoined Bucky.

“Bucky.” Steve made a helpless gesture, and those blue eyes were pleading with Bucky to understand the words he wasn’t sure how to say.

“I mean it. I’m grown. I won’t fall to pieces if y-“

“Don’t. Don’t give me space. Please, Buck.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, and Bucky saw him make a silent decision for himself. His pulse quickened when Steve nodded, then strode right up to him, closing the gap between them.

“What-“

Steve crowded him against the edge of his doorway, and he reached for him, hand sliding around the side of Bucky’s neck, and he kissed him, his lips firm and hot. Bucky, stunned, grunted with the contact, and then his eyes shuttered. His hands gripped Steve for support, hand fisting in his shirt, and he went with it. Steve’s breath held a stale hint of coffee, but Bucky didn’t mind. Bucky whimpered as Steve’s teeth nicked his bottom lip, but Steve gently drew it into his mouth in apology. Steve’s hands felt hot, thumbs just skimming his jaw as he kissed him. Bucky only knew the slow slide and tilt of Steve’s mouth, the smooth stroke of his tongue into the recess of his mouth. Bucky’s heart was pounding and he felt like he was on fire. Desire spiked inside him, and he ended the kiss reluctantly. They were both breathing hard, and Bucky leaned back against the doorway.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice was hoarse. “I’m… I shouldn’t have-“

“You wanted to. I wanted you to. Don’t apologize. Not if you meant it.”

Steve looked so conflicted, and he carefully withdrew. Bucky automatically felt bereft, skin still humming with Steve’s touch. “I can’t.”

“Can’t mean it?”

“I can’t… want this. Just… I’ve got so much going on, but. God,” and Steve shook his head, his expression torn between wry laughter and anger at himself. He rubbed his eyes, and Bucky felt how close to the edge Steve was. He leaned away from the door and tried to come close, but Steve stepped back. “I keep messing this up.”

“Can we talk about what you want? It might help.”

Steve’s breath was shaky. “It might make things even worse.”

“Worse, huh?” Bucky sighed, tugging on his hair. “Okay. Just… okay, Stevie.” And his voice was resigned. Hurt. “The worst part is knowing that you’re willing to let this go. You are, right?” Bucky threw up his hand. “You’re so good, Steve. You know that, right? You’re so good, and you don’t put what you want on the table if you think it’s going to mess things up. I just…” Steve’s eyes searched Bucky’s. “I don’t want you to just let this go. I really don’t. You’ve been doing this little dance of giving me space, and I’ve been giving you space, but it _hurts_.”

“Buck-“

“It _hurts._ I keep messing this up, too. I’ve been messing it up for seven years.”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw worked, and he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damn it, Buck.”

“She deserves better,” Bucky told Steve. “Better than me holding back because some part of me hopes that you’ll come around.”

Steve shook his head. “I can’t bring anything to the table if you’re holding back from me, too, being with her. She got there first,” Steve said. “Fair’s fair.”

“Fair’s fair,” Bucky repeated. His voice was low and hollow. Steve might as well have punched him. “She got there first, huh?” He swallowed and let his eyes stare at the floor. 

Every muscle in Steve’s body felt knotted with tension; the air between them felt sour and stale with frustration. Steve turned away from Bucky and began to head toward the door, and Bucky felt a wave of indignant pettiness rise in his chest. He rushed past Steve to the door, roughly twisted the knob and jerked it wide open. His body language was stiff and unyielding, blue eyes hard as flint. Steve’s mind reeled back, as though he’d been slapped. Bucky’s fingers white-knuckled around the knob. “Hope Libby’s home soon, Steve.”

“Thanks for your concern,” Steve grated out, and he stalked out, not looking back across the lawn as he strode away from Bucky on those long legs, back straight as a rod. 

_Jesus._ What the hell happened?

 

*

 

Bucky headed to work with little enthusiasm; he spared Steve’s house a quick glance and saw that his car was already gone. He was back in Pedes, Bucky guessed, after a too-short break at home, a good chunk of which was spent arguing with Bucky. Guilt swamped him. He felt like a shit heel all over again.

What was he doing? Holding on to what he had with Tory for posterity? Loyalty? Cowardice? He didn’t know. Yet Steve pushed so many of his buttons. They’d let this thing linger between them so long, with no real definition. There were no boundaries. Everything was muddied. 

He clocked in and Clint showed up within moments, walkie-talkie in hand.

“Dispatch said we’ve got a call. Thirty-year-old male, history of seizures. Just had a gran mal attack outside his work.”

Bucky gave silent thanks that he wouldn’t have the chance to think about Steve for a while.

*

Bucky headed to the dirty utility room and slid the depleted O2 tank into the wheeled rack before he went to the break room for a second cup of coffee. Clint and Nat were already there, wolfing down donuts from a pink pastry box in the center of the table. Bucky peered into it and saw the remains of a maple bar that someone cut in half. He snapped it up and ate it in enormous bites, appreciating the sugar.

“Who brought these in?” he said, voice garbled.

“T’Challa. My buddy, the one I went to the concert with. He just felt like bringing us donuts. I’m sure as hell not gonna tell him no,” Clint explained, grinning.

“I’m not, either. He’s _cute_ ,” Nat added, waggling her eyebrows. Clint gave her a shove.

“Not as cute as me, though, right?”

“Hmmmm.”

“ _Right?_ C’mon, Nat, right???” Clint cupped his hand around his ear and leaned obnoxiously close to her, but she gave him a little shove.

“Fragile ego, much?”

“See? She thinks I’m cuter,” Clint told Bucky, who was perusing the rest of the donut offerings to supplement the half a bar that didn’t quite satisfy his sweet tooth. 

“Hey,” Nat piped up, remembering something that made her fold her arms. “James, are you and Tory coming to my shindig?”

Bucky stiffened. “When is it?”

“The Fourth.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Probably not. She’s going to her dad’s.”

“That just means _she’s_ not going, then,” Clint corrected him. “You can go.”

“I’m keeping it open. Thanks, Nat, though. I’m good.”

“Okay.” Her expression pried future answers out of him, the next time she managed to corner him. Bucky didn’t relish that talk.

“I’m still not working it,” Bucky mentioned. “Not unless I have to.”

"Sam's on that night. And Bobbi is, too. You shouldn’t have to.”

“I’m not really up to a shindig.”

Bucky wasn’t sure he was good company for _anybody_ , yet.

*

Bucky felt her texts buzzing in his Dickies’ pants pocket an hour later. Later than he thought she would even be up. He got out of his transport and went to the computer to clock out for dinner, and he waited until he was out on the loading dock, about to meet Clint for a trip to the taco truck before he swiped his phone screen.

Before he did, he saw her most recent message hovering there in a green bubble.

_I’m sorry, James._

His stomach dipped, and an ugly rash of prickles washed over him.

“Okay,” he murmured. Okay.

He thumbed through her texts once he opened them, feeling a tumble of emotions as he weighed each one.

_So, I’ve been thinking._

_We’ve had a lot of fun together, but I get the impression we’re done._

_It’s nothing you did._

_Nothing horrible. Okay?_

 

Nothing horrible. That left a lot of room for him to beat himself up, didn’t it?

_You were really closed off when we had dinner. Maybe you were having a bad night, James._

He was. She was right.

_I’m not always good with being shut out. Maybe you didn’t mean to, but I picked up on it. Happens when you’ve been divorced._

That soured him. Please, don’t let her be comparing him to Victor. That was a _huge_ blow to his ego.

_It felt like the end of the road. It’s hard, because I care about you so much. I don’t know where else we can take this. I just feel like you don’t want to take it any further. I get the feeling like you didn’t want to meet my dad. Maybe that was too big a step for where we are._

There. There it was, out in the open. Bucky grunted and nodded, smirking. If he’d wanted to keep Ororo in his life, he’d fucked up. And she called him on it.

Clint showed up, made a few shadowboxing jabs and punched Bucky in the shoulder. “Hey, sport. Let’s go eat. Whatsamatter?”

“Nothing’s the matter.”

“That’s not your ‘nothing’s the matter’ face.”

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah. Eh.”

“Tacos make it better?” Clint offered. “They always make _me_ feel better.”

“You’re buying.”

“Oh,” Clint said, shaking his finger at him. “Sponging off your friend. _That_ makes you feel better.”

“Hey. You asked.”

He glanced down at the text messages again once they reached the truck and browsed the menu’s meager offerings.

_I’m sorry._

Broken up with by text message. That saved him the trouble of having to plod his way through it in person, but Bucky still felt like shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Ouchie. Sorry. 
> 
> I started writing this update about a month ago, and it fell by the wayside with the holidays, a bunch of gift fic exchanges, and life just getting in the way. Sorry for the long gap, and thanks for sticking with it, it you choose to.


	11. Sliver of Light, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone close to Steve suffers a horrible loss. It changes his perspective on what – and who – he wants from his own life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story, if you have so far. Anyone who reads my RoLo or Lomy fics knows that I kill a certain character pretty frequently in it, and that won’t change for this story, either. I’m the worst kind of person for throwing that out there, but there ya go.
> 
> To anyone biting their nails about Libby in the past two chapters, never fear.

Sliver of Light, Part One

Summary: Someone close to Steve suffers a horrible loss. It changes his perspective on what – and who – he wants from his own life.

Author’s Note: Thank you for sticking with this story, if you have so far. Anyone who reads my RoLo or Lomy fics knows that I kill a certain character pretty frequently in it, and that won’t change for this story, either. I’m the worst kind of person for throwing that out there, but there ya go.

To anyone biting their nails about Libby in the past two chapters, never fear. 

 

“Baby, open the door for me, please,” Steve told Libby, words garbled by the key chain hanging out of his mouth. Libby reached up quickly and grabbed it from him, then fumbled to crunch the house key into the lock. 

“I’m getting it,” she harped.

“This stuff isn’t light,” Steve mentioned impatiently. “I know I look like I’m big and strong-“

“Daaaaad,” she muttered. “ _There._ It’s _open_.” Libby jerked the door open and let it swing freely, then darted inside, heedless of her father juggling her duffle bag, two slightly wilted flower arrangements, and several CVS bags looped around his wrist. 

“Thanks for being so helpful,” he called after her. Steve huffed a laugh under his breath before staggering inside, kicking the door shut after himself. His house had that weird, little stale smell to it, but it welcomed him, silently announcing _Kick off your shoes. Make yourself a sandwich. Feel free to use your own toilet._ More importantly, _Libby_ was home where she belonged, finally ending his fretful nights and calming his jangled nerves. Sharon was due over in a few minutes, and Steve had no reservations about the anticipated visit from his ex, for a change. Things just felt… _right._ Safe.

Libby managed to beat him to the bathroom, however. He no sooner set down the plants and bags before he heard her trotting up the stairs, slamming the bathroom door. Steve’s bladder protested this, and he hung his head for a moment, chuckling. “Right. Take your time,” he said to his kitchen. Steve decided to start a load of laundry in the meantime, mentally composing a to-do list:

Clean out the refrigerator.

Take out the trash.

Check his messages and work emails.

Start lunch. 

Take care of the dishes.

Introduce the living room to some Pledge and the vacuum cleaner.

Get the mail.

Check his bank balance and try not to have a heart attack.

 

He dreaded the last item the most. His missed work meant a very paltry autodeposit in his checking account, and Steve just paid a grip in copays at the pharmacy for Libby’s meds and nebulizer supplies. He still needed to go grocery shopping and see how much of his monthly utilities he could manage to pay before he got any red notices in the mail. 

Steve bundled up the garbage and set the tied-off bag by the front door for a moment before heading upstairs after he heard the upstairs faucet turn off. Libby trooped into her bedroom, throwing him a look over her shoulder as she swiped the screen of her smartphone. “When’s Mom coming over?”

“Should be pretty soon.”

“Can you ask her to bring something over?” she pleaded.

“I was going to make something, punkin’.”

“We can’t just order out?” Her shoulders slumped a notch and she rocked her weight onto one hip, pigeon-toeing one foot and giving him the mother of all pouts. “It’d be faster,” she added hopefully. 

Steve sighed, shaking his head. “I’m a little strapped right now, Libs.”

“Mom could bring it,” she reasoned, and she was already tapping out a text message. “Let me just ask her!”

“Really?” Steve folded his arms, clearly outvoted. “I was gonna make tuna melts. You _like_ tuna melts.” Libby made a noncommittal noise, shrugging at him without moving her eyes from her phone screen.

“Mom doesn’t,” she reminded him.

Steve threw up his hands in defeat, then retreated to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he walked the garbage out to the curb and checked the mail. It was only as he walked back across his front lawn toward his porch that he realized that the grass was _short_ , green from being recently watered, and even.

_Bucky,_ his brain supplied. He’s taken care of his yard for him while he was looking after his daughter.

Gratitude mingled with guilt. He paused to really look at it, then glanced across the way. Bucky’s car was in the driveway. His house was quiet; Steve didn’t hear any sounds coming from his living room or kitchen windows; he was no doubt sleeping. He argued with himself if he should send Bucky a text to thank him, but he was loathe to chance waking him up. Bucky’s daytime sleep was precious. _Sacred_. It would be cruel and inconsiderate to interrupt it.

It had been three days since Steve’s unannounced visit to Bucky’s house, and Steve was still kicking himself for his part in _that_ clusterfuck. Hot prickles of shame washed over him anew, at the mere memory of the kiss, of Bucky holding the door open for him just shy of kicking Steve’s ass out. It still chafed; he still felt raw. He could have done things so much differently.

Yet, he’d been honest with Bucky. That had to mean something (hadn’t it?). Steve wouldn’t – couldn’t – be a homewrecker. _An interloper_ , he corrected himself. Bucky and Ororo had an opportunity to make what they had work. Steve was envious of that relationship, not just of Ororo herself, for being close to the person Steve cared about. He wondered what that would be like, having Bucky hold him in that regard, to be the first person he thought about every morning and the last person he spoke to at night. What it would be like to share chores and spend every night across the dinner table from each other, comparing work days and packing lunches and one of them washing dishes while the other one dried. What would be like to be “one half” of Bucky Barnes?

Half an hour later, Sharon arrived with Chinese takeout, just as he was closing his laptop. He was exhausted from the stress of paying bills and the lag of too many nights of patchy sleep in the Pedes’ ward on the pullout vinyl sofa. Sharon still had bags under her eyes, too, but she was upbeat and agreeable. Libby sat beside her mother on the couch, and the two of them were slumped shoulder to shoulder, munching on potstickers and fried wontons. The sight of them together was reassuring and comforting to Steve, even though it made him envious. Even though he had primary custody of their daughter, Sharon and Libby still had a special bond that some part of him felt surpassed that. He second-guessed his importance in his daughter’s life when Sharon came over, when his daughter lit up during those visits, no matter how hard he worked to be everything for Libby. _You’re taking her to watch Maximum Ride? Well, guess what? I folded her socks._

“Has she had her treatment yet?” Sharon inquired.

“She had one when we got home,” Steve told her patiently, rubbing his eyes and yawning cavernously while Libby scrolled through the cable remote menu.

“Is it almost time for another one?”

“I’ve got another two hours,” Libby told her.

Sharon raised her brows and nodded, shrugging. “Oh.”

Steve smiled his quiet, little smile, nodding back. Some part of him wanted to tell her, _Let’s not fret. She’s home._ Yet it was futile. They would both fret, even under the guise of eating junk food and watching _Worst Chefs_ and making small talk about Libby’s plans for the rest of her interrupted summer break. Libby still had to shake off the last tail-end of the infection, which meant vigilance and rest, medication and treatments, and not taking liberties with her energy level and pushing things too fast. Steve was anxious to go back to work, but it came at the cost of only being able to check in on Libby via their phones or at lunch time, without the benefit of friendly nurses, or, his traitorous mind supplied, Bucky’s encouraging visits and support.

Steve was quiet as they watched their programs and finished the to-go containers, stuffing the empty ones inside each other and stacking the dirty plates on the edge of the coffee table. Sharon watched him curiously, offering him a bland little smile every time they met eyes. 

“Worn out?” she finally asked.

“Just getting my second wind,” he lied.

“Sounds like my cue to go,” she decided. 

“It’s early,” Libby complained.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. I can stop by and bring lunch,” she offered, and Steve felt a moment of annoyance, since that was _his_ privilege, technically; Sharon was horning in on it. Then he reminded himself that he wouldn’t monopolize their daughter. (No matter how much he wanted to.)

“Fish and chips?” Libby asked hopefully.

“Fish, huh?” Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. (Steve smiled.)

“Get it with malt vinegar,” Libby enthused. Sharon _hated_ the fish and chip place with a passion, grudgingly ordering plain fries and the blandest chicken sandwich Steve ever saw or tasted when Libby insisted on going there for her twelfth birthday. 

“Fair enough.” Libby walked her mother to the door, but then Sharon doubled back.

“Ooh. Wait.” She dug into her purse, and Steve felt a spike of gratitude when she brandished her checkbook. “You can deposit this on Friday.” (It was Wednesday.) “That’s payday.”

“You just made my bank account very happy.”

“Thought that might make you smile. By the way, I meant to tell you when I came in, the lawn looks nice. When did you have the time to cut it?”

“I didn’t,” he confessed.

“Oh. Okay.” She paused for a second in writing her signature on the check, then shrugged. “Fair enough.” Libby went one better, glancing out the sidelight window and pressing her forehead against the glass, straining for a better look at the front yard.

“Oh, wow,” she confirmed. “It looks nice.”

“Yeah. Sure does, sweetie.”

“Maybe we should go and tell him thank you tomorrow,” she pondered.

Steve wondered if that was reproach that he heard in her fourteen-year-old voice.

“Maybe we should.”

*

 

Steve slowly tackled the contents of his inbox and emails the next day, suddenly feeling stifled by his work clothes and hard shoes; he’d been in comfortable sweats, jeans and running shoes all week, and it felt odd to be expected to impress anyone again. His skin even smarted a little after shaving off his scruffy whiskers, but the face that greeted him that morning when he was finished was more respectable. Libby even assured him that he looked less like Bluto from Popeye.

He immersed himself in getting caught up, and he realized when he finally clocked out that he hadn't spent the day pining over Bucky. He chalked that up as a small win. Of sorts.

But his front lawn stared back at him accusingly when he came home, and he felt a rush of remembered fondness. Bucky had thought of him while he was taking care of Libby. In every way, he’d thought of Steve. It was so hard not to stride up his front walk, knock on that door again and plead with him to forgive Steve for being a jerk and for creating this awkwardness between them. Instead, he retrieved his mail and went inside, where he found Libby at the dining room table, listening to her iPod. She also had her set of colored gel pens out and was writing something on a card.

“Hey, Dad,” she greeted, giving Steve a bright smile. 

“Hey, pumpkin. What’re you up to?”

“I got this for Bucky. Mom took me by CVS. Wanna sign it?”

Steve noticed it was a really nice thank-you card on heavy paper stock, and he huffed. Well. His daughter had no reservations about giving Bucky the gratitude he deserved, once again proving that his daughter was smarter than Steve. 

“Maybe just… when you’re finished, sweetie. That was really thoughtful of you.” He leaned down and kissed her upturned cheek. “That’ll make his day.”

“I want to give it to him before he goes to work.” Steve noticed Bucky’s parked car, and he knew Libby had a short window of time to take it over there.

“Do it soon.”

“Well, here, then. Sign it.” She slid the card over to him, and Steve took the more sedate green gel pen (Liberty used sparkly purple), uncapping it. He read her words, written in her girlish curlicues, and he felt his breath catch:

_Mr. Barnes, thank you sooooooooo much for the flowers and coming to see me while I had pneumonia. It meant so much to me, and you were so nice to my dad, too. You’re always so nice to us and care about us so much._

_We love you._

_Love, Liberty Rogers_

Steve felt his eyes burn and a tightness in his throat. “Wow. That’s so nice, Lib.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Write him something, too, Dad.”

Steve bent over the card, pen hovering over it as he considered his words. His writing was a little uneven when he finally managed to print his thoughts.

_Hey, Buck._

_Everything you did for Liberty, and for me, means so much. I always feel better knowing you’re in my corner. Thanks for being a great neighbor, and a great friend._

_Thanks for caring about us so much._

_\- Steve_

He regretted his words as soon as he silently read them back to himself and wished he could have used pencil. _Thanks for being a great friend._ Because… that’s all they were.

Right?

Libby took the card for him, and her brows formed a tiny divot between them as he watched her mouth the words. “Is it okay?” Steve asked, voice uncertain.

“Yeah. It’s… fine,” she pronounced. “Thanks, Daddy.” She slid the card into the envelope, then sealed it with a little heart-shaped sticker, giving it a youthful, girlish touch. Steve mulled over the differences in their choice of message as he went upstairs and changed into some clothes he wouldn’t mind spilling anything on while he made dinner.

Libby had told him “We love you.”

Steve didn’t know what to do with the revelation that it wasn’t a lie.

*

Bucky paused in a bite of cereal at the sound of the knock at his front door, and Bear went crazy with barking, making a dash for it. “Boy! STAY! Calm down.” He was up out of his chair, wondering who was interrupting his impromptu dinner before he had to start his shift. He padded to the door in his stocking feet, dressed in his work gear and hair pulled back; his work boots were in the foyer, already untied. 

Bucky held onto Bear’s collar as he opened the door, and he was surprised to find Libby, holding out a pink envelope. “Hey, kiddo.” The sight of her in daytime clothes, groomed and no longer pallid relieved him, making warmth bloom in his chest. She was safe. Home.

“Hi. I just wanted to say thank you, and to bring you this. Um, y’know. For visiting me when I was sick.” She pushed her glasses up onto her nose, and Bucky’s lips twitched at the familiar gesture. Some things never changed. Her hand quivered as she handed him the card, and he gave her a solemn smile. Bear was wagging his tail, wriggling with the effort to tell her hello, so Bucky let him greet her, sniffing at her and whining when she stooped down to ruffle his ears.

“Hey, boy!” she crooned. “Aw, hi, puppy!” She was grinning at Bucky when the dog rolled over and showed her his belly right off the bat. “He’s getting roly-poly,” she noticed.

“Middle-aged spread, kid. Happens to the best of us.”

That gave her pause. “He’s middle-aged?”

“Geriatric, actually,” Bucky mentioned. “He’s… ten, I think.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It’s funny,” Bucky said, tone wistful, “he was one of my first real ‘grown-up’ purchases. I always told myself that when I finally had my own home, I would have a dog.” Bear was panting as Libby rubbed his stomach, and Bucky noticed with a small pang that Bear had more gray hairs in his brows and around his muzzle. “He’s been a great friend.”

“He sure has.” And he heard something melancholy creep into her voice, making her scratchy caresses more reverent. “I loved playing with him.”

“You can visit him whenever you want,” Bucky promised. “Gonna do anything else for the rest of the summer, kiddo?”

“Probably hang out a little more with my friend America, and with my mom. She said we can try another trip to the water park. Or to Six Flags the week before school starts.”

“You should go to Hershey Park. Down in Pennsylvania,” Bucky suggested. “It’s pretty fun.”

“Yeah. Tried that. I threw up after we rode the Super Duper Looper.”

“Right. Scratch that.” Bucky smoothed the surface of the card envelope. “Thanks again for bringing this. I have to work in a few minutes, but I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, sure. So, it’s from me and my dad,” she informed him. “Thanks for coming to see me when I was sick. And for the flowers. Those were awesome.” And she blushed again; Bucky ducked his face, but his smile was pleased.

“It was my genuine pleasure, young lady. Glad you’re up and around. I was worried.” _About you and your type A father,_ he didn’t add. 

“You see sick people all the time,” she reminded him.

“Doesn’t mean I want to see people I care about sick or worried about their kids.”

“So. Um. Mr. Barnes… do you care about Daddy?”

Oh.

_Wow._

How neatly he’d been trapped.

“He’s… great. We’re good friends, and I’ve lived next to you guys forever, kiddo. Of course I care…” He let it trail off, deciding not to elaborate unless she demanded more specific-

“Do you like him? Like, ‘like’ him, like him?”

-details.

Bucky felt heat and color rising all the way up to his hairline. Even his _ears_ felt like they were on fire. “Uh.” He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“It’s okay if you do,” she pressed on, and he saw her cheeks pinkening, too, but she wasn’t holding back any punches today. Obviously, Liberty Rogers was recovered and one hundred percent back on her game. “It’s really okay.” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth before more words could escape. 

“Hey. Um. Thanks? Again? For the card? I appreciate it, kiddo. I’m gonna… just… gotta work. C’mon, boy, inside,” he urged his dog, who whined plaintively at being denied attention from an admirer.

“I’m gonna go, too,” she decided, already backing away from his door and edging toward the steps. “Bye, Mr. Barnes!”

“Later, Libs.” He waved weakly from the door, feeling like he’d been hit by a two-by-four.

“Geez,” he muttered under his breath. “How is this even my life?” And Libby was beating feet, walking faster than he was accustomed, on quick, light bare feet, as though the cool blades of grass burned her. Poor kid was embarrassed, but…

_But._

He closed the door and went back to his cereal, glanced down at its graying, soggy condition, and promptly dumped it out. He looked at the letter. Huffed when he saw the little sticker and the girlish handwriting. _So, it’s from me and my dad._ Sure, it was.

He opened it and smiled at the simple picture and message, just a Shoebox Greeting thank-you note with silly characters on it. But inside, he saw two messages, written in distinctively different handwriting. Steve’s writing was no-nonsense and linear, no fancy serifs or curlicues on any of his letters, unlike Libby’s girlish script. Steve’s words seemed to slash awkwardly across the heavy stock, polite and utterly unsatisfying:

“Thanks for being a great neighbor, and a great friend. 

Thanks for caring about us so much.” Bucky read the words aloud and shook his head.

It just felt so hollow. And it raised so many questions. Had Steve given up on the possibility of the two of them? The thought haunted him, and he left the house under a dark cloud of doubt.

*

For a moment, it seemed like Fate would deliver him an opportunity to find out, but she yanked it from Bucky’s grasp with no warning and even less ceremony.

Bucky’s days off were split again; instead of getting Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday off in one helpful lump to recover from his three twelves, he agreed to take Clint’s nights to cover him for a vacation he made to Malibu. That meant cramming as many errands, bills and as much of his lawn work into one day as possible, while he still had some semblance of energy; by the time he reached his next day off, he would be burned out. Bucky uncapped a squeeze bottle of water and downed a few gulps and went to restart his lawnmower, but as he primed the gas button, he noticed Steve walking back from his mailbox, bills and junk flyers gripped in his fist and his newspaper rolled up under his arm. He paused a moment as he walked across his own lawn, and he gave Bucky a smile that looked uncomfortable. Bucky tried not to wince. Yeah, he knew that look…

“Hey, Buck.”

“What’s goin’ on, neighbor?”

“Just enjoying my front yard. Looks nice enough for company. I think some lawn ninjas attacked and took advantage of the fact that I was watching marathons of ‘Cupcake Wars’ in Libby’s hospital room.”

“Ninjas, huh?” Bucky’s lips twisted and he ducked his face, suddenly finding his lawnmower very interesting. Steve wanted to push back the lock of hair that fall forward into Bucky’s face with that gesture, but he didn’t indulge.

“Didja happen to see any?”

“No. No. Stealthy bastards, those ninjas. Sorry, Rogers. I never joined Neighborhood Watch, but I’ll keep a closer eye out.”

“I think they hit my hedges, too.”

“Looks pretty good, for being done in the dark of night.”

“I know… yeah.” Steve bit his lip. “Thanks, Buck.”

“You’re welcome, y’know? You’re _always_ welcome.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Bucky toyed with the water bottle and tipped it up to his lips again, and Steve tried – and failed – to ignore the way Bucky’s throat worked the liquid down, watching the flex of the taut cords of muscle there. Bucky licked away a drop of water on his now-rosy lips, and Steve felt an unwanted jab of desire in his gut. “Just figured you might not get around to it. May noticed it was looking a little… anyway. Um. Thanks, too.”

“Thanks?” Steve’s brows drew together. “For…?”

“The card. Libby brought it over the other day. It was really nice.” Steve’s shoulders relaxed a little, and he smiled, and it made Bucky wish that they could slip back into the way things used to be, where he didn’t second guess every word they each spoke. “You’ve raised a really nice young lady, Rogers.”

And then Steve blushed furiously, shrugging, but his smile nearly undid Bucky, so pleased and full of pride. “I don’t know if I can take credit for that or not.”

“You can. You should.” Bucky’s voice was warm. “She’s so much like you, Stevie.”

“Lucky for her she has her mom’s nose,” Steve joked. 

“C’mon. Stop.”

“Okay. Okay. Sorry.”

“Just take the compliment.”

“I know. Just… thanks, Bucky.” Steve noticed that Bucky was about to mow the patch of lawn that hugged the curb, in front of the sidewalk. “It’s looking nice on this side, too. Expecting company?”

Bucky’s smile faltered. “No. Not today. Not tonight.”

There was a little catch in his voice, and his eyes were sad, and Steve felt the blunt shape of his own foot crammed into his mouth in that instant.

“Not any time soon,” Bucky added, to fill the empty space between them.

“No, huh.”

“Nope.”

Steve felt a buzzing in his ears and a prickly rush of goosebumps wash over his skin. He fought the urge to glance at Bucky’s driveway as he processed what Bucky just told him.

Steve hadn’t seen Ororo’s car parked behind Bucky’s Jeep for a few days. On the rare occasions when he saw him at all, Bucky was in his work togs or his bumming-around clothes, walking his dog or going out for a jog. Steve hadn’t noticed him dressed for a date in some time. (Some mean, niggling voice in the back of Steve’s head reminded him that _Maybe he’s been spending time at Ororo’s instead, genius_ , but he didn’t need to spend a lot of time pondering it, did he?) And Steve’s emotions ignored his pleas not to rush at him all at once, because _Please, for the love of God, cut him some slack,_ he was only human. Frustration and worry over what Bucky had just implied – and how it affected Bucky - warred with relief and a traitorous spark of excitement over the possibilities.

Bucky Barnes was single.

Which meant that he broke up with someone very special to him, who possibly meant more to him than Steve could grasp, and Steve wanted to hate himself for these mixed feelings.

He wanted to hate himself for wanting to touch Bucky in some way, needing to wipe away that sadness, the rueful, tidy little smile that hid _nothing_.

“I should probably get out of your way,” Steve decided, backing away from him, even though he felt gravity slowing his steps, wanting to give into the pull of Bucky’s presence, of that soft, deep rumble of his voice. 

“You’re not-“ Bucky gestured to his mostly-finished lawn. “You’re not in my way, Steve. You’re not, okay?”

Steve licked his suddenly dry lips and shifted his handful of mail into the same hand that held the paper, shoving his free one into his jeans pocket. He shifted from one foot to the other, trying to find his words and to not broadcast his anxiety, but it was _so damned hard_. “I’m sorry. Bucky. I’m just sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“She was really nice. Like she was good for you.”

“She was. Thing is, maybe I wasn’t good enough for her.”

Steve shook his head. “Bucky-“

“I wasn’t,” he insisted softly. “She called it off. Think she knew I couldn’t give her everything she needed, Rogers. Happens all the time. Better to have loved and lost, huh?”

“That’s what they _say_ ,” Steve said with a little huff.

“Who’s this ‘they?’” Bucky wondered dryly, and they both smirked.

“I don’t know. Seems like whoever they are, they have a shitty answer for _everything_.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “I’ve noticed that.”

“I guess… I was hoping that things were working for you two. I thought she was making you happy,” Steve admitted.

“She could,” Bucky said. “Maybe. If things had been a little different. I think something was missing for me, too.”

_She wasn’t you, Stevie._

Bucky’s eyes told Steve too much, and he saw the tight set of Bucky’s jaw, his uneasy posture and the way he white-knuckled the handle of his lawnmower. 

“And I think maybe it’s time I thought a little more about what might make me happy. This was an opportunity to figure that out.”

“Was it?” And Steve’s eyes searched Bucky’s face, even as he held the questions in his mouth, not wanting to let them escape.

Before Bucky could form an answer, they heard May Parker’s lilting voice from across the street.

“Steven!” She called out. “Is that today’s newspaper?” 

Steve rearranged his face into agreeable lines. “Sure is, May.”

“Oh, darn!” She chuckled and shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong, then. The paper boy didn’t bring mine today. He hasn’t for three days. I think someone’s been stealing it.”

“It’s today’s, as far as I can tell,” Steve said as he undid the rubber band and read the date over the headline. “February fifteenth,” he called out to reassure her, but then he paused and looked back down at the headline. Bucky notice the tightening of his mouth and the sadness that suddenly shadowed his eyes. “Shit,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“This. Something awful just happened to somebody I know.”

And Bucky glanced at the headline, and his own scowl deepened. 

_Long Island Woman, Age 30, Killed In Crash on Ninth Street and Elm_

Bucky scanned the first few lines before handing the paper back to Steve, who was looking more upset. “I know her husband. He works at Harry’s Hideaway. Bartends. Just got his insurance license.”

“Wait… Logan?” The article listed him as “James Howlett,” so it had taken a minute for Steve to recognize him, or his wife, Jean Howlett-Grey. 

“Yeah.” 

Bucky’s face felt hot. “I kinda know him, too. Decent guy. Wow.”

“Yeah.” A pall settled over them as they let the news sink in. 

“They were going back to Boston. So they could be closer to both of their families.”

Steve’s throat felt dry and hot and his eyes were burning, and suddenly he just needed a minute. “Hey, um. I’m gonna go, Buck.”

“It’s… okay. That’s fine, Stevie.”

“Thanks again? For everything?” Steve’s eyes were glimmering a little, and his voice caught. Bucky itched to reach for him, but he was struggling a little, himself.

“It’s fine, Rogers. Any time.”

“See ya later.”

“Later, Stevie.”

Bucky worried about him all day, pausing in every chore he attempted to reflect on him. On his words.

*

Steve waited until after he made dinner for Libby to shower and change his clothes. He charged his phone while he was shaving and combing his hair. He heard Libby come up the stairs, and she hovered in his doorway, playing with her own phone.

“They posted that ‘Tasty’ video for the parmesan garlic knots again,” she told him.

“Maybe you can write down the ingredients this time, and we can make a list the next time I go to the store,” he suggested back as he scraped his chin clean with the Schick. 

“Where are you going?” she prodded, noticing his preparations and the scent of steam and hair product.

“I’m headed out, sweetie. Not for too long. I need to go see someone who just…” And he paused, not knowing how to word this. _Someone who just lost everything. Someone who needs a shoulder and who feels like he doesn’t have a reason to wake up tomorrow._ “Just could use a kind word right about now.”

“You’re good at giving those,” she assured him brightly as she sat on his bed, tucking her feet up under herself. 

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Welcome. Hey, Dad, can we get a Red Box movie?”

“Maybe. We’ve got one to turn in, don’t we?”

“I just finished Trolls,” she informed him. “So you can take it back.”

“Sweet. Was it any good?”

She snickered, nodding. “This one troll farted glitter.”

“Wow. Sorry I missed that.”

“Should’ve sat down with me and watched it. We could keep it another day?”

“Uh. No.”

“You’re missing out!”

“I’ll live.”

“Daddy? I gave Mr. Barnes the card.”

“I know. He told me.”

“He seemed to like it.” She fiddled with her phone, and without looking up at him, she murmured “He seemed sad.”

“He did, huh?” Steve whacked the razor against the edge of the sink to clear it of foam and stubble. 

“Yeah. Y’know, sometimes, when he smiles, you can tell he’s really happy? His eyes do that thing, like, they crinkle up and go all squinty? Like, when you’re about to laugh?”

“Yeah. He does do that,” Steve agreed.

“So do you,” she pointed out. Steve huffed as he rinsed and wiped his face. “But, yeah. He was just… really off. His eyes weren’t doing the thing. I didn’t stay too long,” she promised. “Wonder what made him sad?”

Guilt crept over Steve. Because like Libby, he had made a hasty exit from Bucky’s front door, without making much of an offer to stay and listen. “I think he’s been going through a lot, lately. Probably just had some things on his mind.”

Libby made a thoughtful noise. Then, she nodded. “Don’t stay out too late, Daddy.” She hopped up, kissed his cheek, and sauntered out of the room, giving her phone her full attention once more.

“Thanks…kiddo,” he called after her weakly. Okay. At least she didn’t pat him on the head this time, but Steve was having one of those “Who’s the parent, here?” moments.

He drove downtown to Harry’s and parked in the garage, and when he arrived, he noticed Logan walking out of the office in back, instead of working behind the bar in his apron. He was in a worn old flannel and holey jeans, and his hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through it. And when Steve caught his eye with his brief wave, Logan’s eyes were dark-circled and looked completely hollow. Bloodshot. World weary.

He’d just lost _everything_.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Rogers.” He held out his hand for their usual firm shake, but Steve pulled him in close for a tight hug, and he felt a moment of gratification that it was well received; Logan clung to him for a moment, and Steve heard the hitch in his breath, his resigned sigh. Logan clapped Steve on the back before he released him, and up close, Steve could see that the accident aged him over night. More strands of silver infiltrated his thick black hair, mingling in the stubble on his jaw. He just looked so _tired_. “Just puttin’ in for my bereavement leave and usin’ up a little PTO.”

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

“Yeah.” Logan sighed again, and his chest expanded cavernously with the effort, like it took all he had. He scrubbed his face with his palm. “There’s a lot to get done. I hafta meet with the funeral director tomorrow.”

“Do you need help?”

“No. Thanks, but I’m good. Jeannie’s sister Gayle is coming with me. Her folks aren’t taking this well right now, so it’s just gonna be us making the arrangements.” He gave a wry, brittle laugh. “Knew that life insurance policy we’d built would help, eventually.”

Steve looked stricken. He gave Logan’s shoulder a squeeze. “I wish you didn’t have to use it.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m gonna try to have it at the same church we got married at. Gonna just do a memorial service instead of a wake, and then head to the gravesite.” Steve nodded. Car accident. That choice said so much for the severity of her death. 

“Did you want to stay here for that drink?”

“No.” Logan’s eyes flitted around the bar, and Steve noticed a few people watching him carefully, as though they were waiting to give him their condolences, too. “I’ve been waiting so long to be able to get the hell outta here. That was the point of getting my sales license.”

“How about that pub that does the wings on Fifth?”

“That’s fine.” And Logan dutifully accepted greetings and hugs from a few onlookers and coworkers on his way out. They decided to walk to the pub, since it was only about a half a mile away, and the cool air helped to clear their heads. The ID checker there knew Logan, too, and he waved him inside without asking for his license, as well as Steve. He clapped Logan on the back as he went, and they found a secluded table in the back. 

“They called me when I was setting up. I’d just clocked in,” Logan explained after they placed their order with the server. “They asked me ‘Are you Mr. Howlett? We have you listed as your wife’s emergency contact,’ and I swear to God, Rogers, my fuckin’ heart just _stopped_.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“They were callin’ me from the triage desk to let me know that she was already brain dead. She was gone before they even finished loading her on the stretcher. She was pulling out at a four-way intersection, and she got hit by a teenager who blew right through it. The airbag didn’t deploy. And she was thrown from the car. M’gonna call the manufacturer to see about a recall.”

Steve nodded, unable to find words. He just let Logan talk.

“She’d just gone to the packing and shipping store and bought a whole bunch of boxes. Jeannie and I were due to sign the lease at our place in Boston the Friday after next. I’m gonna see if I can push it out a little and if they can prorate the rent. I already called HR at OptforWellth. Least they know what’s going on.”

“They can’t give you more time?”

“I don’t want more time,” Logan told him. “I need something to focus on. This might help. It’s just… I feel like my feet aren’t on the ground right now. Like everything just dropped out from under me. We were supposed to do this _together_. She was excited to move back to Boston. Jeannie loved her school here, but New York was never home for her.”

“You said it wasn’t a perfect fit for you, either.”

“Yeah. I mean, it had its days where it grew on me, but it’s not the same. Pop’s not faring great right now. He has pneumonia, so he’s not coming out for the service.” Their drinks came, and Logan told their server to keep the change. “When it rains, it pours,” he muttered as he took a gulp of his gin and tonic with lime. “John and Rose are there, now. They’re staying at the house while he’s still admitted at Mass General."

“Thank goodness. I wish I didn’t know what that was like.” Logan paused in his next sip. “Libby just got over a stint in Pedes with pneumonia.”

“Frequent flyer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Sharon help you out?”

“Yeah. She did. She really stepped up.” Steve didn’t want to spend too much time talking about his own troubles, though. “She’s up and around, full of sass.”

Logan chuckled. “She givin’ ya hell? You’ve got a teenager now, right?”

“Ooooooh, boy, do I ever.”

“Enjoy it. Enjoy her while ya can still call her yer baby.” Logan swirled the ice in his glass, musing. “Just enjoy all of it, Steve.”

“I know.”

Logan released a watery sigh. “She’s really gone.” He reached up and pinched at the corners of his eyes. “We made so many plans. I don’t wanna do this alone. I don’t know how.”

“No,” Steve agreed, at a loss. The bar around them was filling up slowly and growing a little louder, and Steve’s stomach churned a little from the alcohol, even though he’d only sipped his glass of stout. “If you need anything, Logan, just ask me, okay?”

“I know.” Logan downed the rest of his drink and thunked down the glass. “It happened quick. That’s what they told me. Doesn’t fucking help.”

Their order of wings arrived, and they made slow, quiet work of them, ruminating and reminiscing. Logan decided on one more gin; Steve eschewed the server’s offer to bring him another of what he was having. He stared down into the remnants of dark brew in the bottom of his glass.

“We’re having the reception at the conference hall. It’s big,” Logan explained. “You can bring yer daughter, if ya want. Or a plus-one. Gonna be plenty of seats.”

“Might just be me and Libs,” Steve told him. Then he remembered, “I showed Bucky the newspaper. You remember Buck?”

“Long hair? Paramedic? Women act a little silly around him?”

“That’s the one.” Steve huffed. 

“Guy’s like catnip,” Logan remarked. “Haven’t seen him much around Harry’s, though.”

“He was seeing someone.”

“Was, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll alert the media that he’s back on the market, then.”

Steve rubbed his neck and smirked. “Yeah. He won’t mind the good press.”

“No plus-one for you, Rogers?”

“Uh. No.”

“C’mon. Ya’ve gotta get out there.”

“I know. I _do_.”

“I hear a ‘but.’”

“I suck at it. I’m no good at dating and ‘getting out there.’” 

“Neither was I. Jeannie came along at just the right time. She was perfect for me. I married my best friend, Rogers.” Logan tore the last wing apart, dredging the bits of meat in the bleu cheese. “That only happens once in a lifetime.”

The worst part was, that was exactly what Steve was afraid of.


	12. Sliver of Light, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Other people’s losses remind you of everything you forgot you had. And they remind you to hold them close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been rough to pick back up. I’m sorry for the wait. The last chapter had some curve balls in it and no easy way to write my way back from them.

“Dad? I have a run in my pantyhose!” Libby ran out into the corridor in her sedate black sundress, a last-minute purchase that Sharon managed on a long lunch break the day before. She was wearing a pair of nude hose and no shoes yet, and she lifted the hem slightly so he could see the ladder of torn silk that extended a centimeter or two below her knee. Steve cocked his head, considering.

“Just put some lotion on your legs, sweetie. It’s not super noticeable, but it’s just gonna keep going the longer you wear it.” He vaguely remembered Sharon using clear nail polish to stop runs, but he didn’t want Libby fretting or fussing about it when they needed to be ready on time.

“I only shaved my legs halfway!” she whined.

“Libby. Please.” Steve’s voice was firm as he paused again in his own shaving, whacking a bit of stubbly foam into the sink. “Get ready. Don’t spend a lot of time on this. Find your shoes. Finish your hair.”

She blew out an exasperated breath and turned on her heel, and Steve’s shoulders hunched in annoyance as he went back to his own grooming. When Steve wasn’t in a hurry to get out the door – when he was marathoning old _Dexter_ episodes in his pajamas, or headed to Walmart to buy fertilizer for his lawn and didn’t bother to change out of whatever stained t-shirt he wore while making breakfast – he didn’t mind being the father of a teenaged girl. But Libby was hell on his patience and his time table when they had to be somewhere on time, looking their best. 

When she was little, Steve had to give himself an extra hour to prepare. Find her patent leather sandals or Mary Janes. Rummage through the laundry to find at least one pair of matching socks, and they were ALL tiny and hard to find in the mounds of clothing. Pack her favorite sippy cup, extra diapers, Pull-Up pants, or a couple of pairs of “just in case” underpants. Pack a Ziploc sandwich baggie of snacks. Wrestle her into the bath. Listen to her make a big production of which bath toys were in the tub, particularly her Barbies whose hair hadn’t seen a miniature plastic comb since Steve wrangled them out of the packaging (Thanks, Mattel, for strapping them into the box with a thousand twist-ties. Fuck you.) Wrestle her out of the bath. Watch his daughter try to convince him that her hand was missing, flapping the empty sleeves of her shirt at him. Changing her shirt twice when he would notice a strained carrot stain after getting her into her whole outfit. Detangling her hair and trying to make sure her pigtails were straight. Make sure he had her car seat strapped down and deal with the inevitable tantrum when she didn’t want him to buckle her into it. 

Minus the car seat, sippy cups and diapers, not much had changed. Libby still made a big production.

And it was hard. Steve was tense and short, anxiety roiling in his gut. Steve stood by the vanity in his dark dress socks, boxers and undershirt, hair damp and still holding comb marks, neatly slicked with gel. His dark clothes lay out on the bed, ironed and unwelcome on a hot summer afternoon. He listened to Libby rummaging around on her dresser for her lotion, pulling out her drawer to make a last-ditch search for another pair of hose.

Steve offered Libby the chance to go to with Sharon for the night, for a girl’s night dinner and Red Box rentals, but Libby balked with indecision. “You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want to, sweetie. I’m just going to pay my respects. You can go to Mom’s if you want.”

“I don’t want to go to Mom’s tomorrow night,” she murmured, and she leaned up on Steve the way she used to when she was little, one of her tells from long ago, when she needed a nap. Or a hug. Or if she was bored of all Steve’s suggestions of which of her toys she should play with it or if he thought she should go outside. It warmed something inside him that she didn’t want to leave him alone. Steve returned her hug and ruffled her hair. 

“That’s fine, sweetie.” 

By the time Steve finished buttoning his shirt, Libby appeared, shod in her black leather chancla sandals and a pair of sheer white hose.

“Where did you find those?”

“They’re knee-highs.”

“Ah.” It was a better option, anyway, since it was so hot outside.

Libby and Steve grabbed their phones off their respective chargers, snagged his wallet and keys and her purse, and they rushed to the car once Steve checked the oven burners one last time. Libby turned on the stereo, but Steve reduced the volume, not wanting the intrusion in his thoughts. It wasn’t a good day for pop music.

“Are they having food?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Should we bring anything?” 

Steve was impressed by the thoughtfulness of the question. “I already picked up a sympathy card for him. We don’t have to bring anything else.” Steve’s throat was itchy and dry and his eyes were already burning a little. “It was nice of you to think of it, though, honey.”

Libby gave him a shy glance, then patted his shoulder before turning to stare out the passenger window. She looked fresh and dignified and far too grown up. Steve turned his attention back to the road, because now his throat was _really_ tight and his eyes were giving him a run for his money. His thoughts were rife with what-ifs. Gratitude that he hadn’t lost everything in his life in one cruel stroke of fate mingled with the horrible possibilities of if he _had_. If he _could._

Steve sold health insurance, but he also handled flexible life insurance packages, and his clientele included couples. With children and homes with young mortgages. Parents who probably competed with him every morning when he was merging onto the freeway on the way to work or whose kids had gym class with Libby. You could never prepare enough. Ever.

They turned onto the street and noticed that the street parking was full for five blocks. “We’ll walk from the parking garage,” Steve told Libby. He was glad she wore flats. Libby nodded easily, finishing off a Facebook post. Steve didn’t try to read it over her shoulder. “Make sure to keep that in your purse, during the service. Okay, kiddo?”

“I know.”

“It’s respectful.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Okay.”

Steve was still all nerves, feeling the fog of sadness sweep over him like an itchy blanket. Yet the sun was shining, dappling the tree-lined pavement with lacy shadows. The parking garage was full on the first two levels. Steve and Libby got out, locked up, and went quietly down the spiraling concrete. They walked wistfully past store windows, noticing patrons on restaurant patios, taking advantage of the weather and the weekend holiday specials. 

“Can we have chocolate cake tomorrow?” Libby asked, voice furtive. That drew Steve out of his funk for a moment.

“Definitely, Libs.”

“Good.” She managed a soft smile, and as they approached the church steps, they paused behind the log jam of guests making their slow way inside. Steve heard soft music playing inside; it was “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton, and if Steve’s eyes weren’t burning before… 

Libby reached for his arm, looping her hand into the crook of his elbow. He reached down and gave her hand a pat, grateful for the contact. He noticed patrons from Harry’s, all friends of Logan’s, and he noticed a woman with reddish, sandy hair who had green eyes like Jean’s, standing by the door, face already tear-streaked and holding her daughter and son against her, nodding and shaking people’s hands. That had to be Gayle, Jean’s sister. Steve nodded to her and lightly grasped her hand. “I’m a friend of Logan’s. And Jean’s. She was such a delight. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” She nodded to Libby. “That’s a pretty dress.”

“Thank you.” Libby offered a polite smile and also reached out to shake her hand.

“There’s plenty of seating up front,” Gayle told them.

“We’ll find ourselves a spot. Thank you.”

“Thank you for coming.” Gayle Grey had dark circles around her eyes, but she shared Jean’s good looks, fair-skinned and slender, with small, even features. She had faint smile lines around her mouth, even though she would have little opportunity to make them today. Steve let the guests behind him take his place in line, and he and Libby made their way toward the front pews. They found one in the fourth row that was half empty, and Steve and Libby claimed it. Steve saw Logan talking to the pastor and the funeral director off to the side. The coffin wasn’t in the chapel; Steve noticed the hearse parked off to the side; he wondered if her remains were in the back.

Steve caught Logan’s eye, and his old friend broke away for a moment to greet him. Steve automatically stood, with Libby shyly following and waiting for an introduction.

“Glad ya made it,” Logan told him as he gave Steve a firm, brief hug. Logan smiled at Libby, and Steve could see the moment of pleased surprise when Libby noticed that she was a smidgen taller than Logan. He was short, but built like a Mack truck. “Yer a real looker, kiddo. Are ya sure this ugly goofball’s yer pop?” Libby blushed and giggled, leaning in toward Steve. He wrapped an arm around his daughter and gave her a little shake.

“This is my little girl.” Steve swallowed uncomfortably as he mentioned, “Tomorrow’s her birthday.”

Logan’s face softened. “They grow up too fast. Happy birthday, darlin’. I hope you and yer old man do something special, okay? Every chance you get, spend some time together.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“I’m gonna mingle. Thanks for coming, Rogers. You too, young lady.”

“See you later,” Libby told him before they sat back down. Libby stared wistfully down at her purse, and Steve knew she was craving her phone, but she set it beside her on the pew and folded her hands in her lap. The pews began to fill, and the chatter in the chapel grew louder. Jean was well-known and well-liked. Steve felt a pang of sadness when he saw Jean’s beautiful, large portrait framed in brass and resting on an easel beside the altar, flanked by large arrangements of pink and white flowers. 

“She was pretty, Dad.”

“She really was, Peanut.”

Libby’s voice was low. “She wasn’t very old.”

Steve’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “No. She really wasn’t.”

Jean’s parents were across the way. The accident aged them overnight. Logan’s family was absent except for a few of his aunts and one of his nieces who came all the way from Manitoba. Most of the people gathered here were friends. Coworkers. College and high school classmates. So many people whose lives Jean Howlett touched with her kindness, generosity and humor.

Libby leaned against Steve again, resting her cheek against his shoulder, and she held his hand, giving it a squeeze. Her fingers were cool from the ride in the air conditioned car. Steve couldn’t explain the strangeness he was feeling in his chest, how surreal it was. How everything around him just felt… like it was flowing around him. He was adrift. Lost. 

He was living his life; why the hell did it feel like it was passing him by? Libby’s presence at his side made him feel older. Smaller. His purpose felt… questionable, in her life. She was older. Getting more self-sufficient every time he turned around. It made him ache.

“Hey.” The soft, comforting baritone snapped Steve out of his reverie as Bucky appeared in the aisle. “Is that seat taken?”

“No,” Steve croaked. Relief and surprise flooded him, while Bucky smiled down at them both, looking sharp and fresh in a black polo shirt and slacks, feet shod in loafers. His hair was pulled into its customary, neat ponytail, and Steve caught a whiff of his after shave. His eyes were filled with concern.

“Hi,” Libby offered, and she rose, stepping over her father to meet Bucky in the aisle, and she engulfed him in a hug. Bucky huffed what sounded like a choked laugh. 

“Hey, sweetheart. You look nice.” Bucky returned her hug gently, rubbing her back. “How are you guys holding up?”

“We’re managing,” Steve told him.

“You’re a little the worse for wear,” Bucky said.

“Yeah. Well.”

Libby let go of him and resumed her place beside Steve after they edged their way inward to make room for Bucky. Steve felt his flesh tingling from Bucky’s nearness, and he scolded himself because Bucky’s firm squeeze of his shoulder felt too good. He envied Libby for being able to embrace him without restraint, with no explanations or recrimination or questionable motivation.

He hated himself a little for the petty thoughts.

“Are you going to the reception later?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where did you park?”

“The garage.”

“Me, too. We probably just missed each other.”

Steve nodded and stared at the wood grain of the pew in front of them.

“I’m going to go say hello to Logan,” Bucky murmured. His voice was casual, but Steve heard the edge to it, and he felt bereft when Bucky’s presence along his arm disappeared.

“I didn’t know he was coming,” Libby said after a few seconds.

“He’s a good friend,” Steve told her. “Not just to us.” He knew Bucky and Logan had a passing acquaintance, but attending his wife’s funeral was in character for him. Bucky cared about people, and his gestures spoke volumes about the man he was.

Bucky was shaking Logan’s hand, and pulling him in for a back-clapping hug. His face held so much empathy, and Steve schooled himself not to stare.

It just wasn’t the time.

*

Yet, when Bucky returned to their pew, resuming his seat, Steve felt himself relax, every tense muscle slowly unknotting itself, and the clamor of questions and self-accusations in his head gradually quieted down to a shallow buzz. 

“You were able to get the night off?”

“Traded a shift with Bobbi.”

“That was nice of her.”

“She’s more flexible now that the semester’s over.” Bucky’s knee gently knocked Steve’s. “I just didn’t want to miss being here. It’s important…” He let his voice trail off and gave Steve a small smile before he glanced away.

Steve looked down at Bucky’s hand where it rested in his lap. His fingers were well-shaped and long, with thick knuckles and neat, short nails.

Steve’s palm was thick and warm when his hand covered Bucky’s. Bucky followed the path of that large, strong, gentle hand, past the length of a suntanned arm, dark shirt sleeve and the taut cords of Steve’s neck, until his eyes reached his face.

Steve couldn’t _not_ touch him. Not when he was so close. He couldn’t resist the pull of his warmth, or the caring that radiated out from those eyes, the way they told Steve, _Everything’s going to be okay._

It didn’t escape Steve that Bucky arrived alone. But the voices in his head that pleaded, _Is this all right?_ promptly hushed when Bucky turned his hand from beneath Steve’s so he could return his gentle grip. Steve felt his face heat up with the contact, now that Bucky was offering it, and his pulse picked up when Bucky’s thumb stroked his skin. Libby leaned against his other side again, and this time Steve lifted his arm and curled it around her shoulders.

He didn’t let go of Bucky’s hand. Steve felt… better. Enveloped in solace.

Bucky hoped Steve didn’t notice his rapid pulse, or the way his whole body went tight as a wire. He wanted to hold him so badly. The shadows in his blue eyes didn’t belong there, not if Bucky could drive them out. 

Logan and the Greys took their seats in the front pew, and the service began. Psalms were read, and the lesson in the Scripture was shared with warmth, and the pastor explained God’s place for Jean among the angels while her family and friends wept and reflected. Packets of Kleenex were passed around the room, and the pastor’s words were underscored by low sniffles and sobs. Logan sat miserably, flanked by his niece and aunts, their hands on him keeping him tethered and present, but his eyes were hollow and lost. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger out of habit. Steve still felt the phantom weight of his own band; even the faint line stamped into his flesh had faded away as he learned to live without Sharon.

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand, just to remind himself again that he was there. That he was real, in that moment.

It meant so much.

*

They lost track of Logan through the crowd of mourners. Voices mingled and rose among them, with short explanations of directions to the burial site and reception hall, sharing the Web page of the obituary, and taking one last look at the portrait of Jean before it was carried away. The hearse was loaded discreetly while children clung to parents, hanging on their hands with a mixture of confusion and abject boredom, wearing their Sunday best.

It was an injustice to see any child under twelve dressed in black. It made Steve’s heart twist in his chest.

Bucky had released him, but he lingered nearby. Libby’s eyes and nose were a bit red, and she gave Bucky a watery smile. “Are you going with us to the hall?”

“Yes, we are,” he told her, giving her chin a gentle tweak. “I wanna sit with someone I know. You two are it.”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded, rubbing his nape. “Likewise, pal.”

“Are you coming tomorrow?” Libby also inquired. “For cake?”

“Cake?” Steve held his tongue, watching for the moment when it dawned on him.

Then, “Oh, my God.” His eyes widened. He motioned to them both. “No. I didn’t forget. Yes. _Yes._ Cake. I’m having cake with you two tomorrow. I would never miss that.”

“Didn’t know if you had any-“

Bucky waved him off, cutting Steve’s words off abruptly. “No. No plans. Just this plan, with you guys.”

“You’ll come?” Libby brightened a little.

“I’ll take you to dinner. Outback. My treat. And we’re _so_ having cake.”

Steve ducked his face for a moment, failing to suppress his smile. Libby’s expression mirrored her father’s, but she clapped her hands and let out a low “yaaaaaayyy!”

Bucky hadn’t said “We.”

Dinner for three.

_Not four._

So many emotions tumbled over themselves to be heard, and Steve fought to squelch them all.

Bucky still caught him staring. His smile held all of the things he promised to discuss with Steve, when they had a moment. Barely contained. 

Vital.

*

The burial service was tearful and short. Steve, Libby and Bucky each threw a handful of soil over the lowered casket. Steve felt hollow and raw. Too young. Too soon. Too close to home. Bucky lingered by Steve throughout the service, only briefly touching him this time, giving his shoulder a squeeze. 

The wind picked up, ruffling the sprays of flowers surrounding the burial service tarp. A few strands of Bucky’s hair flew loose from his ponytail, gleaming sandy gold in the sunlight. Steve’s breath caught at the familiar beauty of him, those knowing, slate blue eyes, the elegant strength contained in that body. Steve knew how it felt to kiss him and to hear his own heart pound when Bucky drew him in. He knew how to want Bucky Barnes from the first time his neighbor, the grumpy night owl, mowed Steve’s lawn because he was tired of looking at its pitiful state from over their shared hedge. Bucky was carpooling convenience and sweet mochas at the end of his shift, before Steve began his. Bucky was the non-scary adult who his daughter trusted when she broke her leg and who kept Steve from crawling the walls when she was _so_ sick. He knew how it felt to hang on Bucky’s words and to still hear that voice in his head every night in the dark, while musing. Wishing.

Always wishing.

They went to the reception. Steve and Bucky nursed tiny cocktail napkins of canapes and drank sparing servings of coffee from the slowly cooling urns beside the banquet table. Libby bypassed the luncheon items and fetched a cupcake from the dessert table; Steve shelved his lecture, reminding himself that she’d forgone her phone during the service and remembered her manners. A cupcake was reasonable reward. And they looked good.

“So, you’re off tomorrow?”

“I am.” Bucky’s tone was smug. “I almost never have my weekend on the actual weekend. Living large over here.”

“You wild man, you.”

“I might even _stay up past nine._ ”

“I knew you were trouble.” Steve knew Bucky was greedy about his nights off and turning in relatively early when he wasn’t expected to stay awake until dawn. The fact that he wanted to share his day off with Steve and Libby was the highest compliment. Steve still fought his stomach’s little twist of worry that he could possibly be keeping him from Tory, yet…

She would _be here._ Wouldn’t she?

He wanted to ask the question so badly, yet the answer swamped him with cold apprehension. What if. What _if._ Were they, or weren’t they?

“What does Libby want for her birthday?”

“Oh. That’s… you don’t have to-“

“The hell I don’t. Get your head out of your keester, Rogers, and tell me what to get for your little girl.”

“Don’t let her hear you call her that, pal. Or you’ll get The Look.” Steve’s lips quirked. “Gift card to Hot Topic or any other girly store will do, Buck. Not Justice. She’s a little too old.”

“That went by fast,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “I feel old.”

Steve huffed. “You ain’t kiddin’.”

But Bucky’s face looked wistful, and pleased. “You did a great job with her, Rogers.”

Steve flushed hotly and his smile was so earnest and pleased that Bucky never wanted to stop looking at it. “You really did,” Bucky added. “Don’t know how she missed getting your ugly mug, though.”

“What?!” Bucky only grinned when Steve gave him a shove.

"Good thing Sharon has strong genes.”

“Asshole.” 

Bucky elbowed him lightly and then glanced away, but he was snickering.

But the melancholy set back in, and both men mingled with little enthusiasm, minds going in unwelcome directions. Steve mentally crossed off things like a coffin that cost as much as a car and the elaborate sprays of flowers. He hoped that when it was his time to die, someone just scattered his ashes over the rail of a ship or in a potted tree by a nice restaurant. Then, he added to himself, _Just hope I have someone in my life who’ll take the time to scatter me around._

Bucky wondered what “the rest of his life” looked like two, three, five or ten years down the line. He wondered if it would be lonely. 

There was something very grounding about shaking hands with friends and family of the deceased and hearing their accounts of Jean, their fond memories of who she was. She loved walking around farmer’s markets and flea markets, and she nagged Logan to drive to the Cape every year so they could ride the ferry to the Vineyard and wade on the sandbar at Wood Neck Beach. Steve smiled at a photo of Jean and Logan on their wedding day. She wore an ivory gown with a pink sash; Logan looked younger, less imposing, and so much like man in love.

The most hopeful of beginnings and the worst case scenario of a marriage both happened in a church. Something inside him unraveled and turned itself inside-out. 

It became too much. He was overwhelmed, and Steve needed air. Space. Quiet. Steve turned to Libby, who sat furtively texting a friend, cupcake wrapper crumpled on her plate, and told her hoarsely, “Libs, I think we’re gonna go.”

“Now?”

“We can pick up something on the way home.”

“We don’t have to, Dad.” Steve didn’t ask if she meant that in regard to leaving the reception, or to stopping at Burger King. She was trying to make a concession for him, and somehow it just hit him harder, made him feel more wretched.

“It’s okay. I think it’s a good time to go.”

Steve chanced one last look at the photo collages and the Howlett’s wedding portrait, and he decided he was done. All he needed to do was tell Bucky. And he wasn’t that far away; Bucky was chatting with a tall, slim man with broad shoulders and light brown hair, wearing a pair of sunglasses with clear red lenses. Bucky and that guest both turned to Steve as he approached, with Libby under his arm.

“Hey. Bucky, we’re gonna jet. I’m a little worn out.”

Bucky nodded automatically and reached for the man next to him, clasping his shoulder. “Scott, before he leaves, this is Steve, my neighbor. He does what you do, I think.”

“Client Services?” Scott asked, showing interest, and perhaps regret that Steve was leaving as he shook Steve’s hand with a firm grip.

“No. But, I sell insurance. I’m a broker for Shield Health.”

“Oh, then you do what Logan does!” Scott told him, nodding. “The old man’s sharp. I keep telling him he should have broken into insurance a long time ago. He’s stubborn.”

“As a mule.” Steve grinned. “I just wish he was coming to my branch. You’re lucky to have him.”

“Sure am, pal. Hey, it was nice meeting you.” Scott wandered off, and Bucky turned away from watching him leave, eyes searching Steve’s.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m just… ready to go home.”

“Want me to bring you anything back?”

“Oh, no. No, I’m fine. You don’t have to, Bucky. You’re always thinking of us… we’re good.”

“Okay. All right, Stevie.” 

The sound of the pet name murmured in Bucky’s smooth, calm tone was so right. “Hey. Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Is it okay if I stop by, later?”

“If you don’t have any plans.”

Bucky shook his head, looking rueful. “I really don’t.”

“Then, I’ll leave the light on.”

*

By the time the fast food wrappers were cleared from the coffee table and Libby and Steve were situated on the couch and recliner, respectively, the sun had drifted across the sky, widening the shadows over the street. Steve was browsing Amazon for the backpack that Libby wanted that they ran out of at the galleria when he heard the patter of paws up his front steps, low panting and Bucky’s low chuckle, right before he knocked on the door. Steve’s heart leapt as he propelled himself out of the recliner, laptop set aside. He jogged the rest of the way to answer it, missing the hint of a smile on his daughter’s face.

He jerked it open, voice tellingly breathless. “Hey.” Bear wagged his tail and whined for attention, standing up on his hind feet, and Steve indulged him, ruffling the fur behind his ears. “Hey, there, old man! Who’s a good boy?”

“Don’t encourage him. Down, Bear. That’s not how we get attention.” Bear sat, but he was still wriggling and eager to be petted, and Steve laughed as he knelt down for better access.

“Oh, yes it is! Hey, buddy! Did you miss me?” Bear was snuffling at his hands and arms, licking wherever he could reach, and it felt good to be appreciated so much, in such a simple way. Dogs _rocked_. Bucky smiled at them, eyes crinkling, hand tucked into his shorts pocket. Like Steve, he changed out of his nice clothes and into a pair of board shorts and a slightly faded tank, with a holey pair of kicks on his feet. His hair was down from its ponytail, and he looked relaxed and comfortable, and it was all Steve could do not to reach out and pet him, too. 

So, he indulged the dog. Because he could.

“He did. He really did.” Steve glanced up at Bucky and noticed him chewing the corner of his pink lip. “Is it okay if we visit for a while?”

“No. Just leave the dog. Scram, Barnes.” Steve poked Bucky in the ribs as he stood and opened the door more widely to let them both in. Bear trotted inside to the living room, and automatically leapt up into Libby’s lap like he was still a puppy, much to her delight.

“I see how it is. You only like me for my dog. Same old story.”

“Cry me a river, buddy.”

Bucky sniffled and mimed dashing away tears. “I feel SO UNLOVED!”

“We still like you!” Libby insisted, laughing and sputtering as Bear gave her face sloppy kisses. “We promise! Hi, baby!” she cooed.

“Suuuuuuuure,” Bucky accused. “She’s just as bad. I swear. It’s like I’m invisible when this guy’s around.”

“No,” Steve murmured under his breath. “You’re not. Trust me.” He was staring at Libby and the dog, and Bucky stared at Steve’s profile. Bucky felt the words Steve wasn’t saying.

“He got excited when I opened the door. I couldn’t look at that face and leave him behind. He really wanted to come over and visit.”

“He won’t wear out his welcome. This was nice of you.” Steve turned to Bucky and gave him a little shove. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“My pleasure, Rogers.”

Bucky sat beside Libby on the couch and stared accusingly at Bear. “You’re not a puppy anymore. I know you think you are,” he told his dog, but Bear just panted, smiling his canine smile and thumped his tail against the couch. Then he went back to nuzzling and licking Libby, who had no problem with it at all.

“He’s a gooooooood puppy,” Libby crooned. “Yes, he is. Yes, he is. Oh, yes, he is.”

_Honestly_.

But it was nice. Bucky’s house felt too big and empty, and he needed to set eyes on Steve for a while and hear his voice and be wrapped up in the scents of his house and feel his cool couch cushions against his back. See that smile and the way he ducked his head right before he laughed.

“Hey, Bucky,” Libby asked suddenly as Bear snuggled down onto her lap and accepted her scratches at leisure, “is it okay if I call my friend Julie down the street and take Bear for a walk?”

“Oh. That’s fine, kiddo. He wouldn’t mind.”

“Awesome!” She swiped the screen of her phone in its jeweled pink case and was gushing to her about the dog and begging Julie to come over.

“I’ll get the leash, kiddo,” Bucky tossed over his shoulder. “Is there anything you want me to bring over in the meantime, Steve?”

“No.” Steve rubbed his nape and told him, “Just you.”

Libby was still staring at her smartphone screen, but the corners of her lips quirked.

Bucky’s face felt hot as he stepped outside. Steve peered out the window through the blinds, separating the slats to watch those long, muscular legs flash across the lawn. Because. He wasn’t. Eager. Or anything.

Not really.

Libby tracked down her sandals and her small purse, and she kept playing with the dog, alternating petting him with more rapid-fire texts. Steve closed down his laptop and put it away, then spent the next few minutes nonchalantly straightening up the living room until Bucky came back inside, leash in hand.

 

Libby fired off another text, not missing the hopeful look on Bucky’s face and his posture, how he angled his body toward Steve even where he was leaning against the doorway.

 

_Dad’s giving our neighbor the eye again. He’s being really obvious about it. It’s so embarrassing???!!!!?_

But she hid her phone when Bucky pretended to peek over her shoulder. “What?” she asked innocently.

“Should I be worried about you and that phone, young lady?”

“Uh-uh.”

“If you say so.” Bucky narrowed his eyes and gave her a shrewd look. Libby stuck out her tongue at him, which was like old times. Libby leashed the dog, and he was practically prancing to get outside. 

“It’s okay, boy, she’s coming!” Libby teased, ruffling his fur. “We’ll go wait for her outside. Bye, Daddy!”

“O. Kay.” Libby rushed over and gave Steve a kiss on the cheek, and surprisingly, hugged Bucky, which he accepted with sheepish laughter.

“If I get special treatment when I bring my dog over, I’m never leaving him behind, you realize that! You’ll get sick of both of us… okay, bye!” Bucky grinned and waved at Libby’s retreating back before the door swished shut behind her and his pup. Libby and Bear took off down the pavement, and Steve knew she was talking – texting – a mile a minute. He glanced through the slats in the blinds again, and he saw Julie Power, gamine and leggy, with her summer tan and strawberry blonde hair shaved in an undercut, rushing over to greet Libby and hug the dog. The girls spared the house a last look (that gave Steve pause) before they took off.

“That… was interesting,” Bucky concluded by Steve’s elbow as he peered through the blinds, too. “I feel like we were deserted with a specific purpose in mind.”

“Yeah? You too, huh?”

“Kinda. Yeah.”

“Okay.” Steve let go of the blinds and stepped back, hand rubbing his nape again. He smirked at Bucky. “I’m usually a better host, when my kid isn’t running off with people’s dogs.”

“You can still roll out the welcome mat, Rogers. I won’t take up much space or overstay my welcome.”

“You couldn’t. Overstay it.” Steve gestured in the general direction of the couch. “Welcome!” But his throat felt tight, and awkwardness settled over him. Bucky sat down, and when he saw Steve hesitating, he patted the cushion next to him with a thump. Steve sank down into it and leaned his elbows over his knees, playing with his fingernail. 

“It was nice of you to come by.”

“You told me I could. I didn’t have any plans.”

“I wouldn’t wanna get in the way of th-“

“Tory and I split up.”

Time froze. 

Steve sighed, letting the air hiss out of his chest. He rubbed his eyes. “Bucky, I’m sorry.”

“So was I.”

Steve stared at his hands, because he was so torn. Relief was squelched by guilt and misgivings. Bucky was right here, beside him. He didn’t have anywhere else to be. Everything Steve wanted was sitting right beside him, saying everything he’d wanted to hear for so long.

“Was this because of…?”

“No. It wasn’t. Don’t think that. We were going in different directions, Stevie. It was for the best. We satisfied a need, for a while. And it was fine. We had fun.” Bucky made a small noise of defeat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “But in the end, we wanted different things. And maybe she knew my heart was somewhere else, before I even did.”

Steve looked up sharply, twisting around to face him. “Somewhere else.”

“It didn’t go far.” Bucky cleared his throat, and his own words felt thick in his mouth, because he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “It was never that far away, because there’s this guy I know, right over my hedge, who’s always there when I need an ear to bend, and he’s funny, a great dad and pretty damned hot.”

“Wow. You make him sound pretty great.”

“That’s easy to do. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this… stop me if I sound like an idiot, right now.”

“No. I’m not stopping you. Keep going.”

“I’m so sorry it’s taken this long,” Bucky told him, and his voice broke a little, and he reached for Steve’s hand where it lay on his thigh, fingers curling around his. “I wanted to give what I had a chance, but I knew. God, I knew.” His eyes sparked, but he was smiling, and the expression was so honest, holding nothing back, and Steve couldn’t stop the one breaking over his own face. His eyes and his cheeks both felt hot, and he squeezed Bucky’s hand.

“Damn it, Bucky.”

“The more I wanted to make it work, the more I felt myself backing off. Just a little at a time. And I didn’t want you to wait around, and I didn’t want her to wait around, either. But so much time has gone by. There’s just been so many things I haven’t said. Things that I wanted to.”

“I wasn’t waiting. Just… I was hoping. I didn’t want to ask for what I couldn’t have, Bucky. That didn’t stop me from wanting you. You know that, right?”

Bucky closed his eyes and nodded, and when he opened them again, they were glistening, and Steve struggled against the urge to shelve their discussion. His hands itched to touch him. “There was never a time where I didn’t want you, Bucky.”

“See? That’s why I feel like such an asshole, because all this time, Stevie, I’ve wanted you, too. How have you stayed single this long? My God,” Bucky huffed, eyes crinkling again with that _smile_ , “how does that even happen?”

“I’m not everybody’s cup of tea.”

“Like hell you aren’t, pal.”

“Just never found anyone who was the right fit. Because a certain guy kept setting the bar higher every time I turned around. He spoils me and my kid and brings me coffee. Coffee’s the way to my heart.”

“Never would have guessed.”

“You don’t have to guess anymore, Bucky.”

“Good. C’mere, Stevie.” They were already pressed back into the couch cushions, shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced together, so all Steve had to do was incline his face a few centimeters to meet Bucky’s waiting mouth. It was sweet, just a soft, sliding caress of lips, at first, and Bucky’s low sigh stroked Steve’s nerve endings, turning on every switch in his body. When he reached up to touch Bucky’s hair, smoothing it back from his cheek, Bucky tilted his head and opened for him, and the kiss grew hot, desperate, too long denied. Steve’s fingers curled into Bucky’s waves in earnest, and Bucky’s tangled in the hem of Steve’s shirt.

The ceiling fan spun at medium speed overhead, but the room still felt hot while they were in close contact. Those were Bucky’s hands on Steve, bringing his dreams and every one of his fondest wishes roaring to life. _I can do this, I can have this, he’s here, oh, God…_

_Mine._ The thought beat like a tattoo in Bucky’s head. _Mine. He’s mine._ That was Steve’s warm skin, slightly clammy from the heat of the day, under Bucky’s hands. That was Steve’s heart beating under his palm, his rapid pulse when Bucky caressed the column of his throat, and those cords of muscle. That was Steve’s mouth, tasting him, stealing his breath. 

They managed scant, broken words between kisses.

“They might not stay out that long,” Steve pointed out. 

“If you keep doing that thing with your tongue, we might not _need_ that long. Wow.” Bucky grinned at him, then kissed Steve’s smile. 

“Got something you wanna share, Barnes?”

“It’s trying to share itself, without any help from me. I need to calm down a minute…”

“That’s fine.”

They eased back but didn’t let go of each other. Steve’s lips were a deep scarlet; Bucky’s were rosy and a little swollen, and they were both out of breath. 

“This could be hard to explain.”

“You fell and bumped your head. I was checking to see if you were still breathing. There. Simple enough explanation.”

“Oh, no reason for her not to buy that.”


	13. Mister-and-Mister Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the adults in the house have no adult supervision. Single dads need a break, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to PRZed, a wonderful writer who has beta’d for me, let me bounce ridiculous ideas off of her, and who won the consolation bid on my Fandom Loves Puerto Rico auction prize. She asked for an update of this story, and I agree that it is long overdue. Fan art for it is pending :)
> 
> There is a hint of overlap between where this chapter begins and where the last one ended, because Libby's internal narrative made me giggle when my muse shared it with me.
> 
> We're in the home stretch. Another chapter to end this, and a bit of an epilogue to follow.

_Twenty minutes ago:_

Libby tapped out rapid-fire messages across her large smartphone screen to Julie. _OMG my dad is SUCH a dork._ She watched the text bubbles roll for a moment, before getting Julie’s grinning with tears emoticons in reply. 

_lol why_

Libby rolled her eyes and watched Bear thump his tail on the couch. He was grinning at her like he understood what she was thinking, and she scratched him behind his floppy ears.

_Dad’s giving our neighbor the eye again. He’s being really obvious about it. It’s so embarrassing???!!!!?_

Julie sent back lines of keyboard smashes and more laughing emojis. _NO WAY!_

_I told you my dad likes both._

_well I know but I didnt kno he liked ur neighbor like THAT thats 2 much libs WOW_

Libby’s lips twisted, and she watched her dad blush again. Okay. Now, it was getting weird. _Come rescue me. Let’s take the dog out and go to your place after._

_thats fine whatever u want_

Bucky caught her eye after trying to sneak at peek at her screen, but she deflected him and gave him the stink-eye. He had the nerve to laugh, but, Libby allowed, he could get away with it. She wasn’t planning on sticking around, anyway.

“Should I be worried about you and that phone, young lady?”

“Uh-uh.”

“If you say so.” Bucky narrowed his eyes and gave her a shrewd look. Libby stuck out her tongue at him, which was like old times. Libby leashed the dog, and he was practically prancing to get outside. 

“It’s okay, boy, she’s coming!” Libby teased, ruffling his fur. “We’ll go wait for her outside. Bye, Daddy!”

“O. Kay.” Libby rushed over and gave Steve a kiss on the cheek, and surprisingly, hugged Bucky, which he accepted with sheepish laughter. Libby noticed that Bucky looked a little embarrassed, but flattered.

“If I get special treatment when I bring my dog over, I’m never leaving him behind, you realize that! You’ll get sick of both of us… okay, bye!” Bucky grinned and waved at Libby’s retreating back before the door swished shut behind her and his pup.

Libby let out a short burst of laughter under her breath as she went to finish her text, but Julie came walking up before she could even hit ‘send.’

“They’re really in there now?” she asked, eyes round. Libby nodded, rolling hers. “Oh, hey, puppers! C’mere, you’re so cute! Who’s a good puppy?” Julie knelt down and let the dog give her lots of sloppy kisses and ruffled the fur behind his ears. 

“Let’s take him around the block. We can hit Miller’s store, I want to get some gum.”

“I don’t have any money,” Libby complained. 

“I can spot you. Don’t worry about it.”

Libby glanced back around and just missed her father peeking out at her through the blinds. They walked at a fast clip, letting Bear sniff everything to his heart’s content.

Inside,

“That… was interesting,” Bucky concluded by Steve’s elbow as he peered through the blinds, too. “I feel like we were deserted with a specific purpose in mind.”

“Yeah? You too, huh?”

“Kinda. Yeah.”

“Okay.” Steve let go of the blinds and stepped back, hand rubbing his nape again. He smirked at Bucky. “I’m usually a better host, when my kid isn’t running off with people’s dogs.”

“You can still roll out the welcome mat, Rogers. I won’t take up much space or overstay my welcome.”

“You couldn’t. Overstay it.”

 

_Now:_

Despite their earlier plan to take a breather and settle down, Steve and Bucky occupied close space on the couch. Steve couldn’t believe Bucky was there, in real time, that he wasn’t just dreaming him or wishing for him. He was kissing him slowly, watching Bucky smile back at him every time he opened his eyes. His skin was slightly flushed and his lips were rosy, puffy from their kisses, and his blue eyes were hazy with pleasure and satisfaction.

“This could be hard to explain.”

“You fell and bumped your head. I was checking to see if you were still breathing. There. Simple enough explanation.”

“Oh, no reason for her not to buy that.”

“No reason at all. Hey. Did you know… you have a little green in your eyes?”

“Yeah. Kinda do. They’re not completely blue.”

“Got little freckles, too.” Bucky leaned in and nuzzled him, kissing the crown of Steve’s cheekbone.

“Okay,” Steve chuckled. “What’s with the critique?”

“Ain’t a critique. I just like lookin’ at you up close, Stevie. I like what I see.” Bucky cradled Steve’s jaw in his palm and kissed a slow, sweet line back down to his mouth, where Steve met him eagerly and with unchecked heat.

“Are you gonna keep sweet-talking me, Barnes?”

“Depends on where it gets me.” Bucky’s eyes darkened with the unspoken suggestion of making more of their time alone.

“You’d be surprised. A little goes a long way with me.”

“Then how about if I don’t stop?” His voice was husky and soft, scratching gently across Steve’s nerve endings and making him shiver.

Steve’s mouth went dry. “Then, don’t. Buck…”

“You’re gorgeous,” Bucky murmured, and his words steamed Steve’s lips. He brushed light kisses over them between endearments. “Sexy. It drives me crazy when you look at me the way you do. And I could do this all day, Stevie.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled, and a laugh escaped him again, but Bucky tipped his chin up to kiss him again when he tried to duck his face in embarrassment. “There are those Rogers dimples.”

“God, Bucky, quit it!”

“Can’t. I love you.”

Steve’s smile faltered, and his eyes dilated. Bucky “MMMPH’ed” when Steve reached up and gripped his nape, tangling his fingers in his hair, and kissed him hard. Bucky’s arms slid around Steve and they twisted to face each other completely, trying to avoid painful craning of the neck, and Bucky finally made the command decision to climb into Steve’s lap. He swallowed Steve’s yelp of laughter, followed by his low groan of need. Steve’s hands drifted over Bucky’s long, hard back, tracing the taut muscles and the bumps of his spine. Bucky wound his arms around Steve’s neck and let their tongues mingle and play. The kisses were deep, lush and hot. Steve’s hands gripped Bucky’s hips, and Bucky ground them down against him in an experimental dip. Steve shuddered, and his “little problem” was rearing its head again. 

“Bucky…”

It had been so long since Steve had just made out for the sake of kissing, and touching… to just let himself feel, and to experience someone with all of his senses. They were close enough for him to see the tiny pores of Bucky’s skin and the few bits of gray in his stubble, the faint creases in his forehead from constantly raising his brows in amusement. Steve breathed him in, drank him in, tasted him, and responded viscerally to Bucky’s cues, the way he nibbled Steve’s lower lip and sucked on it greedily.

Steve craved the feel of Bucky’s skin, and his hands twisted in the hem of his shirt, trying to find purchase without taking liberties, but Bucky knew what he wanted. They were both panting by the time they came up for air.

“This is hard. We should tone it down.”

Steve made a pained noise and closed his eyes. Bucky rested his forehead against his, and then he kissed the tip of Steve’s nose. “I really don’t want to.”

“She could come back any minute.”

“Yeah, yeah… damn it. Quit bein’ so reasonable about everything, will ya?”

“Bein’ reasonable’s usually _your_ job.”

“God, tell me about it… it _sucks_. You don’t even know, Buck. It was so hard back in the day, when Libby was little… I loved my baby girl so much. So damned much.” 

“I know.” Bucky’s smile matched Steve’s, fond and nostalgic.

“It was insane trying to get a sitter, just so Sharon and I could go on a ‘Mister-and-Missus’ date once in a while. Libby was always sick. And then when she left and moved out of the state, I just… didn’t date. So, this? This is rare. This is a big deal. And I probably sound like a total dork right now.”

“A little.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with me about that.” 

“You put it right out there for me, buddy.”

“Oh, I see how it is.”

“You’re _my_ dork.”

“Oh, yeah, I am.” Steve ran his hands up Bucky’s thick, strong thighs and gripped his hips. “All yours, Barnes.”

They lingered like that for a while, catching up on all the kisses they missed. Their fingers tugged on clothing temptingly, suggesting the wish out loud to take things further, but they kept things (mostly) above the waist.

“I feel like I’m in my parents’ basement again. It’s like I’m seventeen again,” Bucky admitted.

“Oh, God…” Steve snickered into Bucky’s neck. “That’s _exactly_ what this feels like. And I’m in my _own_ house. How is this even my life?” Steve sighed and smiled up at him. “I’m freakin’ out that my daughter will walk in on us any minute.”

“You wouldn’t want it to be the other way around, though?”

“Oh, hell no,” Steve agreed. “We’ve already had ‘The Talk.’”

“Ooh.” Bucky winced. “Bet that was fun.”

“We agreed that she can date when she’s thirty-“

“Stevie!”

“What? She’s _my_ daughter! And she agreed, albeit with some grumbling, and a certain amount of eye-rolling-“

“I think you have a very flexible idea of what comprises ‘agreeing with you,’” Bucky told him.

“What? Nooooooooo.”

“Dork.”

“We have that talk more frequently the older she gets.”

“Hey. I’m not arguing the need. You’re doing a great job with her.”

“I’m trying.”

“Well, you’re getting it done.”

“That doesn’t mean I want her to catch me with my hand in the cookie jar.”

“You mean _this_ cookie jar?” Bucky took Steve’s hand and moved it back around to his ass, encouraging him to cup it. Steve’s lips curled and his brows drew together. 

“BUCKY!”

Just then, Steve’s phone buzzed with a text.

He leaned over and grabbed it, without dislodging Bucky from his comfortable perch. “Hey Dad. Julie and I – God, it’s hard to translate her texts with these abbreviations – went to the store. Took Bear too. Going to bring him back home in a few minutes and sleep over at her house. Okay, bye.”

There was a line of emoji kisses and hearts. 

“Hmmmmmmmm.” Bucky’s tone was knowing.

“She’s coming home in a few minutes.”

“That means we need to look innocent before she comes in through the door.”

“Game of Thrones?”

“That’ll work.”

They sat side by side, fingers laced together on Bucky’s lap through most of the first episode they watched, until they reached a sex scene, just as Libby and Julie reached the front walkway. Bucky rewound the episode and paused it just before the dirty parts, since Steve didn’t let Libby watch it (not knowing that she had plans to watch it at Julie’s house, but that was a lecture for another day). Bucky was restless with the need to climb Steve like a tree, and Steve craved the feel of Bucky’s skin, and the sight of him against his bed sheets.

But they both wore benign, indulgent smiles when the girls came inside, gently disengaging their hands but remaining seated. “Did he behave?” Bucky asked them. They undid Bear’s leash, and the dog bounded onto Bucky’s lap, giving him kisses. “Looks like he enjoyed himself.”

“He sure did,” Julie told him. “We stopped at the park and threw him a ball. He loved it!”

“Oh, someone’s spoiled,” Bucky told his dog, who stared up at him with his canine smile while he scratched his ears. “Hey,” he murmured to Steve, “I’m gonna put him inside for the night.”

“He already pooped,” Libby assured him.

“Okay!” Bucky collected the leash from her and headed for the door, giving Steve a hooded look. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I’m gonna go pack a bag,” Libby announced before she trooped up the steps, with Julie in tow. 

“Don’t forget your meds,” Steve called up after her.

“I know, Dad!”

“Okay. I already washed your pajamas, they’re in the clean basket!”

“Thanks!”

The girls thudded into Libby’s room, giggling the whole way, and Steve felt almost guilty for wanting his alone time with Bucky as much as he did.

_God, when am I supposed to be able to have this? Any of this?_

But Libby and Julie were headed over to Julie’s house for a night of junk food, gossip, Netflix, and shunning Julie’s younger brother and sister from the basement, their hangout of choice. They didn’t have any immediate plans quite yet. Birthday cake, at some point. But, in the meantime…

The girls bounded downstairs breathlessly, and Libby had her backpack slung over her shoulder. She hurried over and kissed Steve’s cheek. “Make sure you’re in the house for the night soon,” he told her. The sun was already sinking in the sky, and the clouds were turning pink.

“I know, Daddy. We’re going straight to the house.”

“Okay. Don’t overstay your welcome. Clean up your own dishes and make up your bed when you’re ready to go.”

“I know, I will.” Libby bounced on her heels, waiting to go. There was a light knock on the front door, and Steve’s stomach twisted, and suddenly, he was just as eager for Libby to duck out as she was to go. Bucky gently opened the door and peeked his head inside, smiling.

“Behave, Libby. Love you.”

“You, too, Dad.”

Bucky bit his lip and let the girls step out around him through the door. Then, he furtively came into the house, holding the small duffle that he was hiding off to the side as they walked out. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were filled with guilty intent. Steve bit his lip.

“Am I gonna overstay my welcome?”

“No.”

“How about if I make up the bed before I leave?”

“We’re gonna mess it up pretty good.”

Bucky chucked the duffle onto the floor. His eyes were dark with passion. He gave Steve a calculating smile.

“Look the door, Buck.”

Bucky turned around and put on the latch and quickly crossed the room, closing up the mind-blinds. He faced Steve, who had already turned off the set with the remote and chucked it onto the couch.

“Where were we?”

“An overchoreographed sex scene between Sersei and Jamie,” Bucky reminded him.

“Where else were we?”

Bucky met him in the middle of the living room and kissed him deeply, sliding his arms around Steve’s waist, and he drank in Steve’s low, contented sigh. Bucky felt his arms slip around his neck and Steve’s fingers curling into the back of his hair. The kisses were dizzying and hot, and without further preamble, they slowly waltzed toward the stairs, breaking the kiss only to jog hand in hand to the second floor. They were laughing and out of breath by the time they reached Steve’s bedroom, neat as a pin and smelling like Febreze. The two of them shut the door – it was still a habit ingrained in Steve, having been a parent for so long, even though grown-up houseguests were rare – and Steve pulled Bucky close again. They kissed feverishly, teeth nibbling on lips, tongues exploring, hands groping and slipping beneath clothing and finding firm, waiting skin. Bucky helped peel Steve out of his shirt, and he stared at him in wonder.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” Steve blushed a little and his eyes flitted away, but Bucky caught his chin in his fingers. “Look at you, Stevie.”

“Rather look at you, Bucky.” Steve busied himself with Bucky’s clothing, undoing the button his shorts and dragging down the zipper. He scooped his hands inside the open flaps of denim and slid them down Bucky’s thighs, letting them drop to the floor. Bucky’s legs were sculpted from hard, lean, tapering muscle and his skin was lightly tanned and hairy. Bucky’s boxer briefs revealed his predicament, shrink-wrapped in blue cotton, and the waistband was slung low on his hips, revealing the beautiful dents of his groin. Bucky watched Steve as he reached up behind his head and yanked off his tee, revealing the rest of his body to Steve’s hungry gaze. 

Steve’s mouth went dry. 

“Go ahead and look at me, then, Rogers.”

“Jesus, Bucky.” Steve’s words wouldn’t come.

Bucky kissed him, cradling Steve’s face in his palms, and Steve shuddered with how much he needed him, how long he’d waited to get him here like this. Steve’s abdomen quivered when Bucky’s fingertips grazed it as he unfastened his button. His hands were impatient with the zipper, only managing to work it halfway down before he gave up and just shoved the pants down, letting Steve shake his way out the rest of the way. He nearly tripped as he stepped out of them, but Bucky caught him, pulling him close and grinding against him, hands gripping his supple ass as they kissed. Bucky fondled him through the thin, soft cotton, giving Steve’s ass a squeeze.

Warm, tight skin, so much of it to touch and stroke. So many different kisses to experiment with, and to perfect with extensive practice. So many different low moans and sighs to catalog and define, based on a certain touch. Steve felt himself nudged back, felt the backs of his knees bump against the mattress, and he let gravity pull him down, taking Bucky with him with a low snicker. Every dream he had of bringing Bucky up to his room and shedding the barriers between them paled compared to the real thing, to the man currently covering his body with his own, staring down at him with passion-dark eyes. 

Steve… was rusty.

Some things came back to him, like the thrust and slide of his cock against Bucky’s hardened, eager bulge, and the way his skin grew slick with sweat and friction. Hearing his own breath escape him in short, sharp pants. These things felt familiar, and they welcomed him home. But how long had it been since someone took their time and perused his body, slowly and deliberately, and just watched him so intently, touched him so reverently? More importantly, how had he gone so long without this?

How had he settled for just watching Bucky over the edge of the fence, seeing him disappear into his car every night as he was coming home for so long? How had he labored under the delusion, for so long, that that would be enough? 

“Please tell me you have supplies?”

“Lube,” Steve told him. “For special occasions.”

Bucky smirked. “You’re gonna make me go back down those stairs for the rest, aren’t you?”

Steve face cracked with a ridiculous grin. “Kind of?”

“God, Rogers!”

Steve regretted the break in their rhythm, and he collapsed back against the mattress as Bucky sprinted back down the stairs. He heard the staccato rip of the duffel’s zipper, some brief rummaging, and then the rapid thuds of Bucky’s bare feet coming back up, and he was still grinning when Bucky returned to him, slightly out of breath, but triumphantly brandishing a strip of condoms. Bucky made game show hostess flourishes with his hand toward them, and Steve snickered again.

“God, you’re a cheeseball.”

“I’m _you’re_ cheeseball.”

Steve huffed. “Yeah, you are.” Bucky laid the condoms on the side table and resumed his place with Steve, and Steve’s laughter slowly died as Bucky’s mouth moved slowly down his throat. Steve’s fingers curled into Bucky’s soft hair as his hot, slick tongue traced his collarbones and the divide of his pecs. He breathed over his nipples and lapped at them, savoring the stiffened buds and making Steve arch beneath him. Bucky lingered and played, teasing him, enjoying the firm grip Steve had on him and the way his hips thrust up with little jerks in response. He tasted so good and made such satisfying little sounds. His breathing was uneven when Bucky kissed a path down his ribs and over his hard abs. Steve yelped when Bucky’s tongue dipped into his navel with a little swivel, but he traced his belly just over the edge of his briefs with his lips, and he caught the edge of the waistband between his teeth. Bucky’s hard chest rested against Steve’s thighs, and he continued to pull at the cotton, making Steve smirk down at him.

“I wish that was hot… I wish I had my camera.”

“Not working for you, huh?” The bulged in Steve’s briefs told Bucky a different story, and Bucky kissed his bulge, making it twitch. “You sure?” Amusement and mischief danced in Bucky’s eyes, but Steve read arousal there, and it was doing things to him.

Steve felt his cock drooling, and he was so hard that he ached. “Nope,” he lied.

“Positive?” Bucky mouthed at him, and his breath was steaming him through the thin cotton, making his cock squirm for more.

“Absolutely…” But Steve’s breath shuddered out of him and Bucky nipped a line down the curve of his dick and hooked his fingers under the elastic. 

“What am I gonna do about that?” Bucky tugged the briefs down, and Steve cooperated eagerly, raising his hips so they could slide down past his ass. Steve’s dick bobbed free of their confines and saluted Bucky. “Oh, I know what I’m gonna do…” He slid the briefs down the length of his tapered legs, kissing a lazy trail along them as he went. “This might work for you, Stevie…”

Steve tensed with anticipation as Bucky returned to his nook between Steve’s thighs and gave the head of his cock one teasing, lap of his tongue. It jerked and bounced against his lips, and he lapped at it again, and Steve moaned outright, eyes shuttering and head tipping back into the pillows.

“That… might.”

Bucky decided that their deliberation on the subject was finished, and he toyed with the engorged head, alternating soft, sucking kisses with darting licks of his tongue. Steve’s thighs sagged open, slack and welcoming, and Bucky’s hands curled around them, gripping the supple muscle. He breathed in Steve’s musky, male scent and tasted the saltiness of his skin, and each time his mouth wrapped around the head, it coddled Steve’s inside a little deeper. Steve’s hands were back in Bucky’s hair, caressing his face, and he glanced down and saw Bucky’s eyes – God, those eyes – staring up at him, watching his reactions, saw that mouth drawing him inside, and it made all rational thought desert him.

Steve’s entire world was narrowed down to Bucky as the sun continued to set outside, dimming the slats of golden light sneaking in through the mind-blinds that kissed their skin. Bucky couldn’t get enough of Steve, and his low hums of pleasure gave him away and rippled through Steve’s flesh. Steve grew lost in it, felt himself spiral in the sensations and listened to Bucky as he broadcasted how much Steve affected him. He kept stroking Bucky’s hair out of his eyes, away from that rosy, wet mouth, and he was so gone for Bucky. _So_ gone.

Steve felt his climax looming, about to claim him, and he tugged Bucky’s hair, glancing down at him in warning, but Bucky’s eyes crinkled knowingly as he sucked Steve more deeply into his mouth, letting the head of his cock push against the base of his throat. Any attempt Steve might have made to restrain Bucky or to hold himself back was lost and forgotten. Bucky took from him and urged him to fall over the edge, and Steve came in a rush, emptying himself within Bucky’s lush heat. His breath shuddered out of him brokenly, releasing little grunts and cries of shocked pleasure and gripping the pillow beneath his head.

Bucky sucked him clean, lapping up the evidence of his release. He lingered, staring up into Steve’s face. Steve’s smile was glazed and blissful. “Did that work for you?” he asked innocently.

Steve huffed. “Jerk. You didn’t have to make me do that so soon.”

“Yes, I did. You don’t know how bad I wanted to see you come. I’ve been waiting all these years, wondering how your face would look. How you’d sound. How you’d feel under me, Rogers.” Bucky eased himself against Steve, high enough that he could kiss his chest. “We’ve got plenty of time for the rest, whenever you want.”

“I can’t move.”

“You don’t sound like that’s a problem.”

“It’s not.”

And this time, the kisses slowed, and they were gentler, more contemplative. The room slowly darkened, and Steve reached over and fumbled for the lamp, turning the three-way knob to its middle setting, not wanting to ruin the mood, but wanting to see all of Bucky. Steve’s hands cradled Bucky’s face, framing it, and he just wanted to burn it into his memory, the way Bucky stared at him like he was precious. Like he couldn’t believe Steve belonged to him. Bucky bowed his lips into the pad of Steve’s palm, and he caressed his wrist, before he shifted and nibbled at the edge of Steve’s thumb. Then, Bucky drew it inside his mouth, closing his eyes, and Steve felt himself twitch back to life.

“Bucky…!”

“What?” There was that innocent tone again, and that look that was anything _but_.

“You’re gonna make this difficult for me, aren’t you?”

Bucky exhaled a chuckle and shook his head. His smile was fond. “No. I’ll let you rest.” He leaned down and gave Steve a light peck. “For a little while.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Can’t keep you up too late, old man.”

“Okay, now, that was uncalled for. And too damned honest.”

“Sorry.” Bucky eased himself down against him, tucking his head against Steve’s neck and letting Steve wrap his arms around him. Their legs tangled together and Bucky listened to the sound of Steve’s heartbeat. “Thing is, I’ve waited for this, too.”

“For what?”

“This. Holding you.”

“Yeah? Well, me too, Barnes.”

“It was so fucking worth it.” Bucky’s voice held an edge, and Steve tightened his embrace.

They dozed for a while. By the time they woke, they’d changed positions, and Bucky was spooning Steve, long legs tucked flush together and his arm wrapped snugly around his waist. Bucky’s nose was buried in Steve’s hair, and he woke up at the sound of Steve’s yawn. Bucky kissed his nape, and his fingers stroked Steve’s belly. They were stuck together with sweat, and Bucky wondered if Steve wanted some air.

“Want the fan on?” Steve asked, as though reading his mind.

“We could just open the window,” Bucky suggested.

“I don’t want my neighbors to hear me.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. He raised up from the pillow and craned himself around the crest of Steve’s shoulder to stared down into his face. Steve’s eyes were still closed, but he was smiling. “I’m turning on the damned fan, then.”

Bucky’s “little problem” that he’d fallen asleep with returned once he woke up with it pressed against Steve’s rump. Steve made a sound of disappointment when Bucky’s warmth against his back disappeared long enough for him to flick on the wall switch for the ceiling fan at its lowest setting. Cool air swished over their heated, sticky skin, and when Bucky rejoined Steve on the bed, Steve was already reaching for Bucky’s briefs, jerking them down and off with no preamble, and Bucky groaned as he felt Steve ring his cock in his fingers. Bucky knelt before him while Steve lay there, propped back on his elbow as he jerked Bucky off intently, savoring the weight and smooth thickness in his hand and the way Bucky’s hips thrust him further into his grip. Steve sat up to meet him halfway, and Bucky climbed back into Steve’s lap, mimicking their position from down on the couch, and Steve gradually showed Bucky that the nap recharged him and promised another round. They ground against each other, and Steve caressed Bucky’s skin, molding and kneading his muscles, committing his body to his tactile memory. Steve lapped at Bucky’s throat, nipping at the taut cords while his hand trapped Bucky’s cock against his, so that they slid together with every thrust of his hips. Bucky’s grew rosy and swollen within his grasp, and it leaked hot, pearly drops. Steve’s thumb rubbed it over the plump head, spreading it over his slick flesh.

“I’m not gonna last if we do this for too long,” Bucky confessed.

“Aw.” Steve’s mouth formed a moue of disappointment. “Do you like it?”

Bucky nodded, making a desperate noise. He thrust stubbornly into Steve’s grip again for emphasis and kissed him hungrily.

“That’s too bad. I like it, too.”

“Not helping, Stevie.”

“I want you in me. So we’d better stop. Lube’s in the drawer.”

“You’re just gonna make me do all the work, aren’tcha, Rogers? Gotta turn on the fan, gotta run downstairs and get the Trojans, gotta… okay. Never mind. I ain’t complaining.” Steve bit Bucky’s neck and toyed with his nipple.

“I’ll make it worth yer while, Barnes.” His voice held rich, dark promise and lust. “Hm? Do you want that?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Then open the drawer.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”

But Bucky opened the drawer, and Steve laid back, legs slack and _very_ cooperative when Bucky brandished the Astroglide bottle. “I’m never gonna get tired of seeing you like this.”

“View ain’t bad from here, either, Buck.”

Bucky slicked his fingers with the clear liquid, and he reached for the sweet, tight little pucker, pink and inviting. He caressed it and slowly pushing in a single finger, testing the tight ring of muscle. “God, that’s snug…”

“Can’t help that, baby.”

“No. Stevie. This… this isn’t a problem? You might think it is, but… it’s not.” Bucky gave him an experimental thrust, and Steve’s cock twitched again. “Not a problem at all. God, you feel _nice_ …”

Steve hissed out a breath, and he forced himself to relax and shifted a little on his back. But his legs went slack again, and he breathed through the slight burn and stretch.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Bucky murmured. “I don’t want this to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I want to make you feel good, Stevie.”

“You do.”

Bucky laid down beside Steve, propping himself on his elbow, and he leaned down to kiss him. Tenderly. Druggingly. His finger slid in deeper, twisting and probing, easing the way for another. Bucky took his time, and he felt Steve’s walls loosen a bit as he grew accustomed to the intrusion. Steve accepted it, and he let his hands roam over Bucky, enjoying the ride. His hips thrust up for more, a silent invitation to add the second finger, and Steve hissed at the initial discomfort, but Bucky let him catch up. Steve clutched Bucky’s hair again, tugging on it this time, fingernails lightly scratching his scalp, and Bucky’s kisses grew harder. Steve’s body accepted him, grasping at his fingers, and Bucky was hard, dripping with need against Steve’s thigh.

Bucky drizzled more of the cool lube on his fingers and carefully eased three of them inside. Steve’s hips jerked off the bed, and he huffed out a shaky breath that gave Bucky pause, but Steve gripped Bucky’s nape and kissed him, hard, bruising, and his other hand held Bucky’s where it was before he could withdraw it. Bucky slowed it down, keeping the thrusts smooth, not withdrawing too far, and Steve shuddered when Bucky found his prostate. Bucky gave his fingers a little twist, and there it was again, that sweet shock of pleasure. Bucky massaged it and just watched Steve’s reactions, saw how flushed he was and how he responded to it. Those rosy lips were parted and panting out little, broken breaths, only able to manage one word, over and over.

“Bucky…”

“Look at you.” Bucky felt Steve squeezing him, hot, snug and tempting. “I love that look. I love how you feel.”

Steve’s hand didn’t make Bucky withdraw or slow down, but merely shared the task, urging Bucky to go deeper. Faster. His passage was slick, yielding and receptive.

“Can you take me?” Bucky asked him. “Don’t tell me yes if you can’t.” Bucky continued to thrust, and Steve was still lost in the sensations until Bucky paused. “Tell me, Stevie.”

“Please… I don’t want you to stop this, it feels good, but I want you, baby.”

Bucky devoured Steve’s moans as he gave him a few more strokes, then withdrew. He reached over Steve for the condoms, and Steve leaned up and kissed whatever parts of Bucky that landed closest to his mouth, making him chuckle. Bucky tore off a condom from the strip, but Steve took it from him. He ripped it open with his teeth and leaned up, taking up the bottle of lube. He squeezed out a drop of it onto the rosy, plump head of Bucky’s cock and spread it over his skin. Steve expertly rolled the condom down his length, and Bucky jerked into his grasp.

“You’re good at that.”

“You remember some things,” Steve offered before he laid back, and Bucky settled against him, rubbing the head of his cock against Steve’s entrance, priming the still-snug ring. Bucky lined himself up and slowly thrust down into Steve’s heat, breaching him. Steve’s breath shook, and Bucky hesitated again, but Steve wrapped his arms around him and rocked his hips up to greet Bucky for the next thrust, until Bucky began to rock against him in kind.

Bucky’s arms framed Steve’s body as he rocked into him. The sounds Steve made were desperate and sharp, and Bucky was glad as hell that they hadn’t opened the window like he’d suggested earlier. They kissed, tongues tangling, nipping at each other as Bucky found his rhythm. For Bucky, it was like coming home, being where he always wanted to be. Steve fit him like a glove, and his legs bent and wrapped themselves around Bucky’s ribcage. Steve’s hands gripped at Bucky’s arms, feeling the tight muscles, and he held onto him for the ride. The slide of his cock disappearing into him was erotic, but no more than Bucky’s face above him as he took his pleasure from him, and returned it full measure.

Steve’s cock throbbed, trapped between their bodies and buffeted by Bucky’s hard abdomen every time he rocked, and Steve felt himself edging close to climax again, but this time, his whole body was invested in it, and his spirit was practically singing out. Bucky was making love to him, finally, and it was perfect. No guilt. No more worrying or wondering if he felt the same. The reality of it made Steve’s eyes sting, and he closed them before Bucky could see.

But Steve felt him hesitate anyway, and he felt Bucky’s lips wander over his cheek. “What’s wrong? Does this hurt?”

“No.” Steve shook his head.

“Rogers? Are you all right?”

Steve nodded. “M’just happy.”

“Baby, look at me.” Steve sighed, and he gave Bucky a watery smile, and his felt a little embarrassed that he was watching Bucky through wet lashes. “Baby, it’s okay.”

“M’just happy, Bucky.”

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” Steve felt Bucky’s thumb swiping away at the moisture on his cheek before he kissed him, and he rocked against him in earnest, taking him back down that road to fulfillment. “I love you, Bucky… I love you…” Bucky buried his face in Steve’s neck and thrust faster, deeper, needing to immerse himself fully in the experience. He needed to claim him. Keep him. Bucky was going to love Steve like he deserved, and that revelation was all-consuming. Bucky felt himself building up to his peak, and Steve’s arms around him were so tight, and he was already coming again beneath Bucky, pulsing and spurting thick dribbles against them both, and Bucky cried out, long and loud as he released. His hips jerked, body arching against Steve. Waves of pleasure washed over them both, and Bucky collapsed Steve. Both of them were spent and limp, panting hard.

Bucky’s lips pushed against Steve’s neck weakly, softly. Steve shuffled them slightly to make him more comfortable, and Bucky’s spent cock slipped free, making Steve hiss at the loss of him, but he stroked Bucky’s damp hair back from his flushed face. 

“Love you,” Bucky murmured. He tilted his face up and kissed Steve’s chin, sighing as he settled himself back down. 

“Love you, too.” Steve’s voice was awed. Reverent. “I love you so damned much.”

“Wanna clean up a little?”

“I’ll take care of it. Okay?”

“Mmmmm.” Bucky rolled to let Steve get up. He was so drowsy, limp and content. He felt Steve roll up and leave the bed, the loss of his weight making the mattress bounce briefly. Bucky’s eyes drifted shut as he listened to Steve rummaging in the bathroom for a cloth and running the taps. Bucky heard him wring the excess water back into the sink before he returned, and he gently turned Bucky onto his back and swabbed his sticky belly and between his legs. Bucky fidgeted beneath the warm dampness, but it would be a relief not to have to sleep sticky.

Steve stared down at him, rapt and fond. Bucky was already dozing off, limbs lax and expression soft. Blissful. His heart was so full when he looked at him. He went back to the bathroom and cleaned himself off, chucked the rag into the hamper, and opened the window. He climbed back into bed with Bucky and covered them both with the sheet. Bucky slid over, seeking Steve out in his near-sleep, and they lay sprawled together, breathing in sync.

**Author's Note:**

> That incident with the tricycle really did happen with my son at preschool. His teacher was snickering when she told us.


End file.
